


20 Ten Little Indians

by SpeedBurn (samwise_baggins)



Series: Speed Burn [3]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Kidnapping, Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise_baggins/pseuds/SpeedBurn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Greg's failure to show for work coincides with an unusual delivery, the entire CSI team may be in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Warnings (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: AU: _SpeedBurn_ : Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005 thru Friday, July 22, 2005
> 
> Note: The main story is set in very early season six. The case and trial referred to are set in mid-season three. The case and trial are not from actual episodes.
> 
> Second Note: Nevada Police Codes: 425: Suspicious situation; 422: Officer down; 444: Officer needs emergency assistance; 428: Missing person; and 418: Kidnap.
> 
> Spoiler: Seasons 1 – 5 of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Thursday, July 21, 2005, early morning:

Sirens pierced the early morning air. The officer triggered the record command of his built-in surveillance system. He pulled his radio car to the side of the tree-lined road behind the Volkswagen Passat. There was little traffic as yet, just the occasional early tourist on his way to the various Lake Mead campgrounds and marinas a few miles ahead.

With a slow, sure stride, confident this was his last _pull over_ for the night, the officer strode purposefully ahead, well within sight of his forward-facing camera. He glanced seemingly casually over the VW, noting road dust and the occasional ding along the car's body. The trunk had a small bit of white and teal cloth caught in the latch, but nothing truly notable caught the officer's eye.

He walked over to the driver's side window, tapping on the glass with his Mag-lite. The sound of an electric whirring cut through the early morning stillness as the window electronically opened, revealing the driver to the police officer but not the waiting camera.

"You're weaving, son." The surveillance recording clearly caught the officer's voice followed by a muttered reply, almost indistinguishable. With a visible nod the officer shone his light into the car then glanced back at the driver. "Well, I suggest you pull over and get some sleep before you continue on, son. Late night shifts can have that effect. Drifting off behind the wheel is a dangerous hazard."

The officer straightened then slid the light of the Mag-lite over the empty backseat. "I'll let you off with a warning, but I'll ticket you if I see you again. Get to bed now."

A muttered reply once more issued from the driver and the officer stepped away from the VW, returning to his own vehicle. As he slipped into his own driver's side seat he left the camera recording. It captured the civilian vehicle signaling then slowly pulling back onto the road. A few electronic beeps and plastic clicks issued forth as the officer typed in the vehicle's license plate. No red flags lit the screen and the officer nodded to himself as he said aloud, for the recording, "Oh-seven-sixteen. Silver Volkswagen Passat spotted weaving on Lakeshore Road. Driver Gregory Sanders stated he was _'coming home from the late shift and must have drifted off'_." No apparent signs of intoxication. Issued friendly warning and let Mr. Sanders go. No charges or citations being filed."

Finally the officer clicked off the recording device. He shook his head and turned his radio car for the city, not giving much more thought to the apparently sleepy driver he'd just pulled over and let go. It was the end of a long night shift and time to go home and that was just what he intended to do. The officer drove off into the ever growing light of the dawn.


	2. A Meeting of Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005, evening

The medium-sized box seemed rather innocuous. It was a plain brown box in fairly good condition. The only identifying features were a small discolored mark in one lower corner and the neatly typed address label stuck directly in the middle of the top surface. It did not bear any stamps or post office identifiers; it merely read, in block style fonts:

**CSI OFFICE  
URGENT**

There was no indication who it was from or for. Thus, the box, heavy and awkward upon lifting but not too heavy to carry easily, had taken practically all morning and well into the afternoon to arrive at its intended destination. And there it was being taken through the proper channels before being handed over to the shift supervisor.

Said supervisor had pooled select members of his team into one great meeting of the minds. From the core night investigation group, having come in early for the meeting, were Sara Sidle, Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, and Nick Stokes, led by Gil Grissom, the swing shift supervisor. Intending to stay late to attend the meeting were members of the lab staff: Archie Johnson, Jacqui Franco, Bobbie Dawson, and David Hodges. Mia, the DNA technician, had the day off and thus had not been included. Greg Sanders was the only one missing, but as it was five minutes before the scheduled meeting time no one was too upset.

Impatiently checking the clock, Sara frowned and moved restlessly in her seat. She had a clear view of the doorway, having positioned herself deliberately to be able to keep an eye on the happenings beyond their overflowing room. She noticed the unlikely presence of Captain Jim Brass, Homicide detective and former CSI Supervisor, approaching with a plain looking box. Sara's frown deepened; plain boxes rarely held simple treasures. Glancing at her supervisor, she cleared her throat and said "Brass."

Grissom looked at her for a second or two, a puzzled look on his face. His thoughts were hidden as his face suddenly cleared and he turned to watch the entrance of his long standing, yet uninvited, friend. The others as if on cue also turned to watch the detective's progress.

As if afraid to jar his plain but precious cargo Brass moved to the central table and stopped, not relieving himself of his burden. He looked grim as he clearly stated, "this was dropped off at the post office about noon. The woman said she found it on her porch while walking her dog. It hasn't been opened yet, but it's been x-rayed and they think it has a knife and a metal pipe inside. We're detaining the lady for questioning at the department."

Everyone turned expectant eyes on Grissom waiting for the cue that they would begin an investigation instead of the dreaded meeting. He looked from Brass to the box and back to Brass. "And it's not even my birthday." Getting up Grissom led the officer from the room and down to the Trace Lab. In curiosity the others followed to wait outside of the Plexiglas-surrounded lab.

Except Dave Hodges; his duty lay mainly in Trace so he felt justified in following the two men into the room, quickly drawing on vinyl gloves in eager anticipation of helping out. What a feather in his cap to personally assist Supervisor Grissom as everyone else watched in envy from beyond the transparent barricade . . . at least, that was how Hodges saw it.

Brass and Grissom merely ignored the eager lab tech.

Once at the exam desk Brass carefully placed the box down. He took only one step back. Curiosity warred with caution and caution had not come out the winner. The package had already been examined by the post office and no explosives had been detected.

Grissom moved methodically; rushing destroyed evidence and sometimes risked even more. The supervisor was too well trained, too experienced, to rush the procedures for this particular package. There were no indicators that going quickly might aid in the almost certain coming investigation.

After photographing the box from varying angles, he used a sterile swab to gather a sample from the stained corner, easily determining that it was human blood. With a frown, he retained a second sample for DNA testing. Carefully, he removed the tape and the label, trying to handle the evidence as little as possible; Grissom wanted fingerprints from the package if they were available.

His movements remained methodical throughout the long, agonizing process of opening the box. A crumpled plastic trash bag with a scent reminiscent of two day old garbage and blood lay inside. As carefully as he had gone thus far, Grissom opened the bag, not yet lifting it from the box.

"Well, there's the _'pipe'_."

Gil Grissom's voice made everyone jump coming so unexpectedly into the long silence. Brass gingerly peeked over the rim, keeping his hands well away from the smelly package. Hodges slid closer trying to get a glimpse but was thwarted when Grissom continued his processing.

Slipping his gloved hand cautiously inside, Grissom lifted out a tire-iron, knife, a torn white and teal cloth, and a wallet, all bloody. Each piece of evidence lent an air of greater doom to the room; this kind of unexpected delivery could not mean anything good. Grissom lay each item down and started carefully untangling the cloth, revealing a white T-Shirt with a teal dragon and lettering on the front. It read _'Interfere not in the affaires of dragons for ye are crunchy and good with catsup.'_

Catherine Willows gasped, letting them know she recognized something. Stepping into the room, reaching for gloves to quickly pull on, she ignored the curious glances from Grissom, Brass, and Hodges as well as the interested eyes following her from the rest of the group still in the hall. With a shaking hand, Catherine picked up the wallet and opened it, revealing a laminated card, presumably a driver's license, too bloody to read. The rest of the contents were bloody as well and no identifying credit cards or information was present. She carefully slid the driver's license out of the wallet, her worried eyes meeting Grissom's. "Someone should call Greg . . . make sure he's all right." Her voice sounded faint and raspy with emotion.

Hodges frowned and finally butted in. "Why wouldn't Sanders be okay? It's not like people don't run late." He was miffed that Catherine would be hinting that she wanted Greg to handle the DNA and trace from this case instead of Hodges himself. To emphasize his own capability he added, "I can run that blood." He reached for the swab Grissom had made.

Turning suddenly steely eyes on Hodges, Catherine said, "No, you'll need to run trace." She slid the swab away from Dave's questing hand then turned back away to meet Grissom's eyes. "Someone needs to check on Greg, Gil. He has a T-Shirt just like this, and he's late . . . Greg's never late."

Grissom nodded. "Let me know what you find out, Catherine." He took the wallet from her hands and carefully swabbed the blood on it, as well as the other objects. While working he called out, "Nick, you're with Brass. Check missing persons, hospitals, anything to try to locate someone that may have been hurt recently: this blood is pretty fresh. Warrick, Sara, there's a couple of assignment sheets on the meeting table. They're yours."

And with those words everyone had to be content to disburse upon their assigned duties, the lab technicians gathering their samples as Grissom provided them, properly logged by Hodges who still waited for the final word from Grissom on that blood sample. Someone superseded his claim to the blood leaving Hodges to hang around the Trace lab, watching Grissom work. Not to be left out, Hodges grabbed the Trace samples as they were logged, moving towards the microscopes and computer banks against one wall.

Grissom continued to process the contents of the box and the box itself. He ignored the movement of people around him leaving to go about their business. Grissom was vaguely aware that someone had taken the blood swabs and someone else the trace evidence, but he was too intent on what he was doing to pay much attention. He intended to work fingerprints next.

xxx

Avoiding the general exodus, Catherine took her right glove off and reached for her cell phone, dialing with one hand as she reached for the blood swabs with her still-gloved left hand. She listened to the sound of a busy signal as she dropped off the swabs with Jacqui, who'd stepped into the lab in Mia's place. Greg's home phone was off the hook. Catherine tried his cell phone.

The cell phone rang several times, but Catherine kept on the line. She would leave it ringing as long as it took to get Greg's attention. If he was talking on his home phone, he'd be forced to answer the cell just to get rid of her. Her persistence paid off. She heard the phone click on and she sighed in relief. "Greg? It's Cath. Where are you?"

From the other side came only the sound of someone listening, breathing controlled and light. Finally, the call disconnected. "He hung up!" But Catherine had a niggling of doubt. Greg wouldn't have acted that way . . . he'd have at least talked to her. The memory of that ripped bloody T-Shirt sent a chill down her spine. The strawberry-blonde woman shook off the sensation of dread and turned back to the DNA lab. Jacqui should have something soon if she'd put it in front like Catherine hoped she did.

xxx

Jacqui looked up at Catherine, reaching for the print out at the same time as the investigator. With a raised eyebrow, Jacqui pulled her hand back and let the older woman dominate. It wouldn't tell her much without something to compare it to, but Catherine seemed too anxious to wait for the proper procedures.

Catherine sighed as she glanced over the sheet. "Jacqui, compare it to Greg's. He'd be in the system after all the testing Grissom ran on him when he first came to us." She realized her tone was snappish and she sighed again, shooting a rueful look at the younger woman. "I'm sorry, Jacqui. I . . . I just have a feeling about this one. Greg's not answering his home phone. He's hanging up on his cell . . . it doesn't feel right."

"I hope we can laugh about this afterwards . . ." Jacqui privately felt Catherine might be on to something but she presented a rather bored air for the anxious woman, as if Catherine was getting bent out of shape over nothing. Her attitude didn't seem to ease any of Catherine's tension so Jacqui merely ran the numbers through the database, programming the computer to check Greg Sanders first, just to please Catherine.

xxx

Brass and Nick were more conversational than their teammates. They left the Trace Lab and headed down the hall behind Catherine. When she hung up her phone and turned back towards the DNA lab, Nick merely nodded towards her and called out, "I'll check his house, Cath." Her blue eyes showed gratitude as he passed by then the pair exited to the parking lot and headed towards separate vehicles.

"Look, we'll check Greg's first, then we'll do the rounds, right Brass?" Brass seemed to know it was a rhetorical question. He called out his agreement and slid into his Ford, turning over the engine without waiting for Nick to reach his Tahoe. Minutes later the detective and the criminalist were on the road.

The DNA results came back just after the pair left giving a definite name for the supposed victim . . . if they had only known.

Jim slowed the car as he approached Greg's place. The house was lit up, indicating someone was home. From the street nothing seemed amiss. The front door was closed, the car was . . . Jim parked and slid from his car with a frown. The car was not in the driveway. _No car but the lights on?_ Those were inconsistent factors and Jim Brass disliked inconsistencies. He turned at the sound of Nick's approach, slowly drawing his gun. "Car's gone, Nick."

Nick took in the lit house with a frown. Until that particular moment he'd dismissed Catherine's fears. Greg wasn't the only one to wear T-shirts with weird sayings; it wasn't like that dragon shirt was a made-to-order item. Nick had only offered to check Greg's to ease Catherine's fears, but now he wasn't so sure those fears were as unfounded as he'd assumed. Nick pulled out his gun, too.

Quickly yet quietly, the pair made their way towards the house, looking for anything else suspicious or dangerous. Brass signaled Nick to stay back and cover him while the detective called out, "Greg, it's Brass. You there?"

There was no answer so Brass checked the door. It was locked. There were no signs of breaking and entering or even struggle out front, but Brass refused to take any chances. He signaled Nick to follow him around the back. Without word, Nick followed.

That door hung wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any real lab results take a lot longer than shown in crime programs, thus, instead of the three days it would normally take for the DNA results, I went with the increased speed of the program to keep with the general flow they have already established. Thank you.


	3. An Eerie House-call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005, evening

"This is Brass. I need back up at . . ."

Tuning out the detective's words, the camera he'd grabbed as he'd left his Tahoe clenched securely in his hand, Nick studied the streaks on the stoop. It looked as if someone had dragged something through food and other debris; and the deep blackish-red coloring indicated that blood might be liberally mixed into the mess. There was no sign of activity in the one-story home. The trail of debris and drag marks, however, ended in a pooling effect on the top step, with faint prints leading down the three steps to the gravel walkway. A cursory glance did not clarify just where the trail lead or ended but, with the car missing, a fair assumption could be made that someone had taken Greg's Volkswagen Passat from the crime scene.

The faint sound of voices came from inside the house next door: some sit-com playing out its canned laugh track in an eerie, surreal splash of white noise. That vague sense of dread Nick had been feeling since spotting the discrepancies out front settled deep in the pit of his stomach, causing the acid to churn. Without thinking the investigator popped a stick of gum in his mouth, storing the wrapper in his jeans pocket. He pulled his revolver from its holster tuning back into Brass' radio call.

"I repeat, _'we have a 425 with possible 422, requesting backup.'_ We are entering the premises to provide possible emergency relief." The homicide detective ended the communiqué with dispatch and turned towards the open doorway.

Brass didn't even glance over his shoulder at the following criminalist. He cautiously, avoiding as much of the trail as possible, slipped up the three steps to the back door stoop. He could see through the open door into the lit room beyond, and he saw enough to solidify the sense that Greg was the injured person they were looking for.

"Police!" Brass followed procedure instinctively despite the urge to sneak up on whoever might be left in the residence. Law dictated fair warning.

Hearing the sure footsteps of Nick behind him, Brass took a steadying breath then proceeded through the door, eyes sweeping quickly over the room. To the right sat an island counter someone could be hiding behind, on the right a table pushed up against a window seat as if shoved willy-nilly. Apparent blood and food debris, as well as what seemed to be pieces of thick china, littered the floor and counter; the refrigerator stood open.

Nick wanted to panic but forced the sensation down. "Greg?" He listened carefully for any reply, any indication that his friend . . . or even the perpetrator . . . was there and had heard him. He only heard the slamming of his heart in his rib cage, Brass walking towards the kitchen island carefully trying to avoid the debris, and that stupid sit-com next door. Were the neighbors deaf to need it so loud?

"Clear," rang Brass' voice, startling Nick into almost swallowing his gum. He coughed into his hand, dislodging the sticky mass, and bit down on it hard, fighting the instinct to spit it out. This was an official crime scene and there was no way Nick would compromise it. Following the detective, Nick walked carefully toward the hallway, picking out the obvious drag marks and bloodied prints leading towards the next room.

As they made their way through the carpeted hall, Brass suddenly signaled Nick to stop and gingerly peeked around an open door in the wall. He pulled back and shook his head calling softly, "Bathroom is clear."

Nick nodded and resumed slowly following his friend and current partner, staying far enough behind to be out of the way but close enough to help if needed.

After only a few steps the hallway opened up into an equally carpeted living area. To the right were a couch, low slung coffee table, and vast entertainment system, all positioned comfortably near the front door which remained closed, indicating that if anyone was still in the house, he or she hid in another room. To the left stood a small niche with a comfortable office chair and a computer desk with all of the latest geek toys. Straight ahead was a closed door on the opposite side of the room.

The pair paused briefly to take in the complete chaos of the room, centered near the coffee table and couch. The wall phone hung down off the hook, until it nearly brushed the floor with its receiver, a steady dial tone buzzing faintly like the drone of a lazy insect on the autumn night air. A laptop computer, damaged heavily, lay on the floor in a pool of blood and bits of debris. The drag marks began there, but the faint footprints, which liberally crossed and re-crossed through the blood, led beyond the pooling towards the table and back. Blood spatter marked the furniture, ceiling, and walls. The signs of struggle also included a single apple, bitten and trampled . . . a piece of evidence extremely noticeable for its oddity.

Jim brass signaled that he was going to cross towards that closed door. Nick nodded his agreement, fighting down the nausea that kept rising as he pictured the scene in his mind . . .

_Greg opened the door from his bedroom, the sun beginning to set outside the windows of his comfortable home. He moved as if listening to music but no radio or television played and he didn't wear his oft present mp3 player. Greg listened to some song in his head, moving to an energetic beat that only he could hear._

_With a grin he headed into the living room and put his laptop down on the coffee table, followed quickly by his cell phone, then turned to head to the kitchen for a quick meal before leaving for work on the night shift. He moved quickly, hunger roiling in his guts; it would be a busy night and many of the shift would skip their breaks to get the evidence processed in a timely fashion._

_Once in the kitchen, the young investigator opened the fridge and pulled out one object after another, looking for just that right snack to slake his hunger. Settling temporarily for a white, thick china bowl filled with leftover stew the man turned, only to come face to face with the intruder. Startled, Greg dropped the stew bowl and it shattered on the hard tile floor of the kitchenette._

_Thinking quickly as the man lunged for him, the thinner, quicker former lab tech turned and darted for the hallway only to get slammed against the table. Somehow he found the strength to push back, despite getting the wind knocked from him, but it wasn't enough. Greg's strength was in his wiry speed, not in the muscled brawn boasted by his attacker. The investigator made another dash for the doorway, this time dripping blood from a gash received from his brief struggle._

_Once in the living room, Greg reached for the phone but was tackled before he could do more than knock against it. Slamming into the floor, feeling his legs grabbed and yanked backwards, he kicked out, unsure if he made a connection of any worth or not. He crawled towards the coffee table, reaching for his cell phone._

_The intruder was too quick for the pain-dulled movements of the slighter man. Greg found himself slammed once more against the floor, as the larger man grabbed for the laptop and used it as a handy weapon of attack. Blood spattered as the investigator was struck repeatedly with his own laptop, finally falling unconscious. He was never aware that the intruder left him there to bleed as he headed into the kitchen to slake his own hunger with a stolen apple from the fridge._

_After only a few bites, the intruder nervously determined he had to leave with his prize. The burly man grabbed Greg by the legs and dragged him back down the hall towards the kitchen and outside, the half-eaten apple falling forgotten to the living room floor and trampled negligently in the invader's haste. He hefted the investigator off the porch and towards the innocently waiting Volkswagen in the driveway. Fumbling the door open, the man dumped his precious cargo into the back seat then raided his pockets to retrieve the keys, which he used to start the car before driving away, uncaring that he left the lights on and the back door wide open in his haste to escape._

The blur of Brass moving forward once more drew Nick out of his dark imaginings. He shook off the worry and dread, determined to help his younger friend to the best of his ability. At the moment that meant backing up Brass as the detective checked that last room.

Knowing Nick's gun was trained on both him and the door, Brass reached out and turned the knob. It opened easily, the door swinging silently outward. The older detective drew in a deep breath, holding it in anticipation, as he suddenly stepped forward and steadied his own revolver. He blinked once, the air whooshing from his lungs in anticlimactic near-disappointment.

It was a bedroom, with a single bed, bureau, and desk neatly lining the walls. In here, too, were numerous bookshelves as well as a floor to ceiling shelving unit containing DVD's. Two rotating fully loaded CD racks sat next to the desk innocently. The closet door stood wide open, clothes hung without any discernible pattern. The floor of the closet contained a laundry basket with bunched, tangled laundry in it, presumably clean and awaiting proper distribution to drawers and hangers. There was no sign of either victim or perpetrator, and one quick glance led the pair to the pre-assumption that the crime had never crossed into the sanctity of the bedroom.

They turned and headed back into the living room, sirens piercing the night air outside and rising as the requested backup came closer and closer.

The click and whir of a camera broke the otherwise almost deathly stillness in the room as Nick began to process the crime scene . . . his friend's home.


	4. It Just Gets Better and Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005, evening

"Gil!" Catherine and Jacqui presented themselves at the trace lab, both extremely agitated.

Grissom looked up, his face grim. He held the driver's license, now clear of blood; there had been no usable prints or fibers. As the shift supervisor opened his mouth to speak, his cell phone rang. With a frown, not bothering to remove his stained gloves, he answered the phone, momentarily ignoring the presence of the two women.

"Grissom."

"It's Nick. Greg's gone. His car's gone. His house is a mess . . . blood everywhere. Griss, I'm gonna need help processing. Brass called in back up. I . . . I think Cath was right."

"I know she was. The license is his and I'm guessing Catherine just came in with the DNA proof." He looked to Catherine, who waved the print-out in front of him.

"It's Greg's blood, Gil."

Grissom nodded, a look of determination etched on his face. "Nick, I'm sending you Catherine for now. I'll recall the others and set them on this, too. Find everything."

"Will do, Griss." Nick's voice held as much determination as his supervisor's features.

"Catherine," Gil turned his full attention on the woman. "Get to Greg's house and help Nick." The redhead nodded and hurried from the lab. "Jacqui, I'm going to need you to help Hodges on this." Hodges' head shot up and his mouth worked in protest. No sound emerged however as Grissom continued in his authoritative tone. "I need everything you can get me, no matter how small. We need to find out who sent this. Hodges, contact the Post Office and see what you can find."

Surprised, Hodges bolted from the room. He very rarely got pulled out of the lab to do something else, even if it was to make a few phones calls and check the databases. He was not going to argue; the very fact that he'd been chosen to work Greg's case meant he was a trusted member of the team. He wasn't going to let them down . . . or Greg.

With a flick of his fingers Grissom contacted Sara's pager. He typed in the codes 444 and 448 for _emergency assistance_ and _missing person_ then repeated the process for Warrick's pager. All the while he made his way down the corridor towards Archie in the AV Lab. Looking up Grissom's eyes met those of the Asian-American Audio-Visual Trace expert. "Archie, I need you to contact the police dispatch and have them keep an eye out for Greg's car. As soon as they have anything, let me know."

Grissom had to fight a sense of Déjà vu; this had happened to Nick not too long ago. That had nearly ended in the young investigator's death in an explosives-lined Plexiglas box buried several feet below the ground. That case had involved a man distraught over his daughter's conviction in a homicide based on a simple Styrofoam cup. That man was dead, though . . . so who had Greg, and why?

Frowning in worry Gil looked at the license in his hand once more.

xxx

At the sound of her pager, Sara frowned and glanced to her hip. She was squatting next to a broken basement window, snapping the obligatory photographic evidence of the break-in. No one had been home during the burglary, and apparently no one had been hurt, so she didn't have to deal with trying to document an attack on top of the theft. But that didn't mean her job was any easier: without witnesses or even a good security system, they had a slim to zero chance of catching the perpetrator unless he or she had gotten careless during the commission of the crime. The sound of her pager could only mean a more serious or high profile crime had just been called in and she was being pulled off of this one.

Sara hated leaving an investigation unfinished.

Snapping off a final picture then documenting it in her photographic log, the investigator finally pulled her pager from her hip and glanced through the brief message. It was a recall with the additional codes of 444 and 448 listed. Surprise washed over Sara and the scene with the box, and Cath's worry, flooded her intuitive mind. "Damn!"

Hurriedly, Sara stood and gathered her gear, alerting the police officer assigned the scene that she had a recall for a missing person. She hurried to her car, ignoring the worried inquiries from the couple who'd been burglarized. Grissom wasn't easy to panic, and if he was sending out a _'missing persons'_ then something terrible had happened. The Tahoe roared to life as Sara glanced back, gauging her route from the two-story crime scene she'd originally been assigned to the Las Vegas Crime Lab. She flipped the switch to start her lights flashing.

Along the way, the investigator found herself falling in behind another Tahoe with flashing blue lights. _That'll be Warrick._ Ruthlessly, much as any of the members of their Graveyard Shift would probably be doing at that moment, Sara pushed back the memory of Nick's kidnap and burial. She had no proof it was Greg who'd gone missing. Even if the call-back did concern their wayward investigator, chances were that Greg had gotten hurt and went to the hospital. A routine check would locate him and things would be back to normal.

The only problem was that Sara was far too much the pessimist to even believe her own theory. This recall had come too close on the heels of that unusual delivery with the blood-soaked contents . . . and Greg hadn't even called to say he'd be late. A recall of both her and Warrick also seemed to indicate that they had a lab-related crime. Sara didn't believe the victim was some well-to-do tourist or high-paid celebrity: the coincidence of Greg's no-show lead to the reasonable assumption that their colleague was the one missing.

xxx

 _'Damn! First Nick, now Greg . . . when are we gonna catch a break?'_ Warrick slammed a hand on the steering wheel of his Tahoe and glanced over his shoulder. He carefully reversed into the nearest driveway and pulled once more onto the street, heading back the way he'd come. Once he was going in the right direction, he let his mind deal with the problem at hand, green eyes unconsciously roving the streets and by-ways, trying to spot Greg's familiar Volkswagen Passat.

The coded pager message hadn't actually identified the missing person they were being recalled to deal with, but Warrick wasn't a stupid man. He knew that Gil only pulled emergency recalls if he'd received a sudden high profile case or law enforcement was involved. With the earlier bloody package and Cath's fears for the unaccounted-for Greg Sanders, Warrick put one and one and one together and naturally got three. A gambling man by nature, the Las Vegas native would easily have bet his entire month's paycheck that Greg was their victim. He just wished he didn't have to be so damned certain that he was right.

It didn't take long before another Tahoe with whirling lights dropped in behind Warrick. He barely glanced at it, acknowledging that it must be Sara also on recall, then back at the road. With a deepening frown Warrick pulled his service vehicle into the crime lab parking lot and slipped kitty-corner into two spots, forcing Sara to park just that much further from him. Without caring, the tall lean man slipped from his vehicle and headed into the lab, Sara falling into step beside him.

Cath was on her way out the door as the other two investigators headed inside. She didn't let them go too far, gesturing and calling out, "You're with me. Greg's place." Now that she'd actually had her fears confirmed, and she had been assigned to work the case, Cath's voice was steady, rock hard. Warrick and Sara didn't comment as they followed the redhead from the lab, once more climbing into their assigned vehicles.

Grissom left only a couple of minutes behind his team.

xxx

Altogether, from the moment Nick's call for help had come in, to the time that help arrived at their colleague's house, it had been no longer than fifteen minutes . . . minutes each one of the investigators counted as fifteen too many.

Turning a weather-wise eye to the dark sky, noting the lack of starlight and the barest of hazes from the moon, Gil Grissom turned his face to the team. A light breeze blew and it threatened to get stronger as time passed. "Process the outside first; it looks like a storm'll hit soon." The sooner that storm hit, the more evidence would be lost, and Gil wanted to retain as much evidence as possible.

The older man headed quickly to the back of his Tahoe and flung open the hatch back, reaching for the large floodlights he kept back there. Warrick joined him and started pulling out the sturdy metal stands they would use to hold the lights in place. Cath and Sara pulled out a tarpaulin from the back of one of their Tahoe's, along with stakes and rope to spread it over the driveway and path to the back porch. No one bothered Nick or Jim inside, too intent on getting their jobs done to inform the pair that they had shown up.

It was as the floodlights were being aimed by Gil, and Warrick was assisting the woman in getting the tarp taunt that the requested officer backup arrived. With barely a glance for their newest members, Gil called out loudly, "Careful, this entire place is evidence. Hold a perimeter and help us get the tarp up. Roll down the sides so we can block the wind and rain." He didn't even check to make sure his orders were being followed; Gil trusted people to do their jobs and do them right. Fortunately he worked with a good group of professionals and his trust was well placed.

Once they secured the tarp and the lights shone over every possible angle, Gill gestured towards his people. "Warrick, pictures, then help Cath. Cath check for blood and trace. Sarah, perimeter, especially any signs of where the car might be. I'll go inside and help Nick." With that, the supervisor turned towards the porch and froze. "Warrick, I'll need you before I go inside."

The other three investigators turned their attention towards the porch, noticing for the first time the blood smears and pooling. Anger crossed Sara's face as her hands clenched by her sides. Cath gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth in an age-old gesture, but she quickly gained control and started laying out identification markers for Warrick's photos. Cath's movement broke Sara from her stillness, and the younger woman hurried to get identification flags to use in the yard and driveway. For his part, Warrick swallowed his reaction and moved carefully forward, aiming and firing off several shots as he slowly approached, getting wide angles as well as close ups and narrow shots. Gil merely stood patiently aside, waiting to be cleared to proceed inside.

If there was any one thing investigators learned at crime scenes, it was: no matter how personally involved you might feel, rushing destroys evidence. There was no way Gil would rush his team through this scene; the weather would do enough to make them hurry. Hurrying meant missing something or destroying something or forgetting something, and they needed every scrap of evidence they could get to help Greg.


	5. Containing Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005

Near sunrise, July 21, 2005:

Pain coursed throughout his entire body, radiating from the side of his head and his right flank. Greg couldn't hold back a groan or the nausea that wracked his cramped, tortured body. He blinked open his eyes but saw nothing, not even light. Only a moment more passed before the young investigator realized he was moving . . . or rather the container he was in was moving. Unexpectedly, the small, unidentified container lurched, throwing him against a hard surface and sending a ripping pain through his already injured side. Unable to control the nausea any longer, Greg heaved all over himself and the container he was imprisoned in.

The stink was almost enough to make him pass out once more, but the pain wouldn't allow blessed oblivion. Instead, he lay in the mess groaning, not yet able to control his body or mind. It was an unfortunate missed opportunity, as suddenly, blindingly the container opened with a loud click.

A dark shape stood over the injured man, but the blinding sunrise masked any features. Greg vaguely registered the upsweep of a longish, oddly shaped object before it came crashing down, missing the young man by mere inches and shattering part of the container. The action spoke louder than any words the figure might have uttered: _'Obey me or you'll get crushed!'_ The investigator didn't doubt the implied message, or the obvious power displayed by his captor. He nodded, tried to suppress a groan, and waited; he was too weak, too cramped, and too scared to do anything else.

After a moment, the figure reached into the container and started yanking on Greg's T-shirt. Confused, but trying to cooperate, the investigator rolled as much as he could to allow the man . . . it was a man, right? . . . as great an amount of access as possible. It wasn't easy with the pain and nausea. Finally the T-shirt came free and the man stepped back while he shoved it into a stinking plastic garbage bag. Greg took that opportunity to surreptitiously look at the container he was jammed into. Shock coursed through him as he came to the realization that his captor had managed to wedge the investigator's six foot frame into the trunk of his own Volkswagen Passat!

Barely glancing at the prisoner, the man slammed the trunk lid; however, the damage he'd done to the lip of the trunk prevented it from latching correctly. He had only succeeded in slamming the trunk down on Greg's already aching, bloody head. With a stifled yelp, the investigator scrunched down as far as possible, still not fighting the situation, as the man tried again and again to close the trunk. Greg began to wonder if he had a chance of escaping when, finally, the trunk latch caught and held. A small amount of light and air spilled in from the damaged lip, the seal not quite meeting, and that was probably Greg's saving grace.

The young man waited long agonizing moments for the vehicle to start once more, wondering where the hell he was being taken . . . and why. He eventually fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

xxx

Sometime later:

Greg was unsure just how much time had passed while he'd slept in his car trunk. He could feel heat and the light from the broken seal was bright, so it was obviously day time . . . unless, of course, the guy had set his car on fire. The thought nearly made the thirty-year-old investigator panic, but he gathered himself, pushing the horror aside. He couldn't afford to let his very active imagination run away with him.

Instead he paused, assessing his situation. Only a few minutes passed before Greg realized that the car wasn't moving anymore. He listened carefully and heard nothing. Naturally the pain and dizziness and nausea still wracked him, but he ruthlessly pushed the disabilities to the back of his mind, working on trying to scrunch himself around in the trunk. If he could just get turned around, he could reach the inside safety release catch . . . and get out of the trunk.

A very long time passed as the tall, lean man got into a position he could work from. The trunk felt overly cramped, never made to store a six foot tall man. With his injuries and sickness, it became all the more difficult to maneuver. On top of everything else, Greg had to be quiet and careful, in case his captor came around to check on his victim.

Finally, Greg was facing that damaged portion of his trunk. Awkwardly he tried to grab the safety tab but missed a couple of times. He had double vision, just to add to his growing list of disabilities; Greg was starting to get angry. Catching the tab, he worked it but got no results. After several attempts, he had no better luck; he had to come to the conclusion that the heavy object used to break the lip of the trunk and damage the seal also had damaged the emergency release. He was stuck.

He closed his eyes, fighting disappointment stronger than even his pounding headache. After several long moments, Greg opened his eyes and tried to see out the slight gap in the trunk seal; it didn't help. Mostly he could see bright light and a bit of green, but he couldn't identify if that green was a house or a stand of trees or a car or . . . it could be anything.

Listening quietly once more the man couldn't hear any movement from inside or directly around the Volkswagen. He did, however, hear the faint sound of children laughing and screeching. _So, there are other people around._ Most likely, the car was parked in a public parking area or near a school or playground. That was a good sign; the kidnapper could hardly risk opening the trunk to hurt him without exposing his own crimes in the process. As long as other people were around, Greg felt he was probably safe. Now how to get the attention of those people so he could get rescued?

Suddenly, Greg became aware of the fact that he had to relieve himself. He could try to hold it, but how long would that be for? In misery, the young man fought an inner battle over the degrading position he'd been forced into before finally coming to a conclusion: he was already covered in blood and vomit, what more harm could urine cause at this juncture? However, he held it, hoping it wouldn't come to having to wet himself, too. He'd wait a little bit before that humiliation, listening to the encouraging, yet oh so frustrating sounds of distant children playing.

Overcome with exhaustion, despite his discomfort, Greg Sanders finally drifted back to sleep.


	6. Necessary Collections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005, evening

Warrick signaled Gil to proceed and the older man carefully made his way up the steps. Behind the supervisor Cath was gathering swabs, trace, and anything else she could find amidst the bloody trail of debris left behind. Sara started placing markers where she found any hint of disturbance to the ground, any shred of possible evidence for Warrick to photograph. The recently arrived police backup silently began to assist with the perimeter and the wind-whipped tarp the CSI's had put up.

Finally reaching the doorway, Gil called in the door, "I'm coming in." He could see the destruction around the kitchen and dining areas. Maneuvering around the blood, broken china, and food, he found his way to the far corner of the kitchen, where there was no sign of destruction or disturbance, and placed his kit on the floor in front of a built-in cupboard. Opening the kit the investigator began pulling on his gloves, glancing up only as Nick entered the room to begin photographing in there. Brass followed right on his heels, as careful as the CSI's about the bloody, debris-ridden trails.

"Grissom," Nick glanced up as he squatted down to place yet another numbered marker. "There looks to have been a struggle in the living room, too. The hall's got blood trails, spatter, and a couple of footprints. The attacker didn't seem to care about leaving evidence."

With a nod, Gil pulled out his swabs and evidence bags. "That's good news, Nick. It means he left a whole lot of himself for us to find. A sloppy criminal is easier to follow." He began to move behind Nick, making sure to collect only from places already photographed by Nick and logged by Brass, who also sketch the scene as a way to cut Nick's investigation time; there was nothing in the procedures against a detective logging and sketching for the investigator.

Glancing quickly behind himself, Brass gestured with his pencil to the hallway. "There's a bit of unusual evidence, too, Gil. There's a half-finished apple trampled into the carpet down there. Bathroom and bedroom are untouched, too." He started sketching the misplaced table.

Gil's eyes lit up. "If the perpetrator was eating that apple, we might have DNA evidence." He smiled grimly adding, "Or at least some fingerprint evidence if it hasn't been too damaged."

"You can get a fingerprint off an apple?" Jim sounded suitably impressed.

Barking a small, sour laugh, Nick jumped in, "Fortunately. An apple's skin is able to be fingerprinted using magnetic powder. There's also the smashed laptop in the living room. I'd say the perp might have left prints on that, at least."

Jim's face registered how impressed he was as he turned the page in his notebook. "Huh, go figure. An apple a day can keep more than the doctor away."

Both Gil and Nick shot Jim Brass identical looks of surprise.

xxx

Warrick quickly turned to photograph the grass around the probable path the abductor took as well as the gravel driveway. His face bore an intense frown, his green eyes locked firmly on his work. Happy-go-lucky Greg was definitely their victim, he had no doubt of that; what he couldn't figure out was who would want to hurt the former DNA technician. Always snapping doubles of each vital shot, the investigator made mental note of what looked like dried blood droplets on the gravel driveway. "Cath, I think we have blood here."

Not waiting for a second cue, Cath moved forward with swab and test kit. She squatted down, testing one of the larger drops. Lifting the swab with the purple-pink tip, she nodded grimly. "Blood." Looking back down, the Blood Spatter expert tried to determine just what had been happening when the blood was left behind. It took only a few minutes to figure out what most likely occurred.

"It looks like Greg was moving along here and stopped in two different locations." Cath took measurements and did quick mental calculations as she moved and talked. "He could have been walking or possibly been carried. Judging by the directionality, I'd say Greg moved this way first, stopped for a while, then moved over here," she indicated the two blood pools that had clued her to the junior investigator's possible movements. "Here there's more pooling. Then he moved back to this spot again and . . . the pooling is disturbed and is gone." She frowned, trying to imagine the events in her mind.

_Greg was bleeding from a heavy head injury, lying limp over a large man's shoulder. He was carried to the back of the car, where the man stopped, fumbling with the trunk. The man finally gave up and carried the unconscious investigator back around to the driver's side of the car, opening the door to pop the trunk with the lever there. Turning once more, the man made his way back to the trunk and stuffed the tall man into the small space, uncaring that he was hurting his victim. Finally, he slammed the trunk, his feet scuffling the blood-soaked gravel as he moved back towards the driver's seat. Slipping into the car, the man quickly started the vehicle and drove off, his prize unconscious and helpless inside the trunk._

Cath's stomach roiled at the thought of what might have happened to her young friend and colleague. She frowned, ruthlessly pushing back her own anxiety. Staying in control was key; Greg needed her concentration, not her worry. Cath moved to measure the distance between both blood pools, making notes on a sketch she was drawing of the blood patterns.

Sara placed evidence markers, keeping an eye out for any signs of passage. So many questions swirled around in her mind as she processed the scene: _did the perpetrator walk there or was he dropped off? Did he carrying anything with him, leave anything behind? Was there more than one offender?_ With each new question, a dozen more sub-questions tried to race to the fore. It looked to be a long, complicated case, but she was determined to answer every one of the questions that presented themselves.

Those questions were quickly driven from her mind as the storm began with a vengeance. As the wind whipped faster it tugged a corner of the tarp from the stake it was bound to.   
Rain lashed in through the unexpected opening, starting to pound across the gravel. "No!" Cath surged to her feet, reaching for the flapping end, knowing that each second that passed, her blood evidence disappeared even more. Sara jumped to the older woman's side, trying to help fasten the tarp. It took four of them to get things settled and the women thanked the two officers as they turned to salvage their crime scene evidence.

Using great common sense, for which Warrick was known, the third investigator never stopped taking pictures, preserving as much of the scene as he could despite the wind and rain suddenly ravaging the area. He had to trust the others would do what they could to secure the tarp; Greg's recovery, his very life, could depend on the photographs Warrick captured. With a tilt of his dark head, the tall man suddenly had an epiphany. "Cath, Greg owns a Passat . . . look at where the pooling is: one at the end, most likely the trunk, right?"

Looking over, trying not to drip on her evidence, Cath frowned. "Yes . . ."

"And the other would be about halfway up. If that pool," Warrick came closer, gesturing one-handed, "is in front of the trunk then this is the driver's side . . . and this is the back door."

Frown deepening Cath turned to look over the sight, following Warrick's gestures in her mind. "Okay, so either Greg or the man carrying Greg stopped at the trunk then headed . . ." She trailed off, eyes widening. Hurriedly, Cath began to get as much swabbed blood from both pools as she could, taking numerous swabs.

"What?" Sara had missed part of the conversation and felt out of the loop, which she didn't like.

Cath explained as she worked. "Why would someone carry Greg to the trunk then to the back of the car then back to the trunk? That's a lot of weight to heft around. So," she lifted shining eyes, excitement running through her, "These blood pools might not be from Greg."

"Our perp was bleeding . . ." Sara added with a triumphant smirk. "Good job, Greg. Give us as much DNA as possible!"

With a little laugh, Cath added, "Well, DNA _is_ Greg's specialty."

xxx

Heavy metallic pounding pulled Greg from an uncomfortable doze. He opened tired, aching eyes, only to notice that the daylight was gone. He was wet, cramped, and in pain from head to foot, most especially in his side and head. Thirst roused its ugly head, and Greg found himself trying to shuffle closer to the small broken area of his trunk. That pounding was rain, which meant water.

The investigator wriggled, gasped, groaned, and finally got his hands near the broken trunk seal. Cold rain water ran into the once water-tight vehicle, but Greg was thankful for the broken area. With sticky, cramped fingers, he wiped rain water from the rubber and metal before him, greedily licking and sucking the moisture into his dehydrating body.

Much later Greg finally started recalling just why he was stuck in the small trunk of his own car.

Stilling, fingers poked out to catch more of the refreshing drops of life-sustaining water, Greg listened carefully. The sounds of laughter and children had disappeared with the daylight, as had any sounds his kidnapper had made when they'd first arrived. After several minutes, Greg came to the dawning realization that his captor had actually deserted him. _Why? Who breaks into a guy's house, kidnaps him, then abandons him near a playground?_

With a frown Greg pushed the not-so-random questions from his mind and pulled his fingers back into the trunk, sucking the water from the digits as he thought. With the absence of the children, and with the heavy storm, it was quite likely no one would hear him cry out if he did. He'd have to find another way out of the trunk. Greg whipped his fingers from his mouth with a last soft suck and started trying to feel his way for the emergency latch once more.

He knew that if his kidnapper came back, it would most likely be to finish him off. If the guy had wanted Greg alive, he wouldn't have abandoned him without food, water, or air; it wasn't certain the perp even knew that trunk seal had broken. The guy might just think he'd suffocated his victim.

Greg intended to be long gone before the guy returned.


	7. Theories and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Thursday, July 21, 2005, evening

"Hey, Griss," Nick's voice called out from the sink area of the kitchen.

Gil looked over, pausing as he was dusting for prints on the table. Nick stood between the sink and the island prep counter, staring at a block of knives. "Find something?" The older man carefully stepped over the blood and debris to approach his investigator.

Nick, holding the camera ready for a shot, glanced at his supervisor then back to the knife block. "Yeah," he snapped a picture, "Would you agree that Greg's a gourmet?"

"In the food arena, perhaps, but his clothes are strictly classless," Gil shot back but his heart wasn't in joking. It was in the investigation. He stopped on the other side of the island from Nick, right next to Brass, who also stared at the well-stocked island. Then he too noticed what had grabbed Nick's attention. "There aren't any knives missing."

Looking up Nick met Gil's eyes and nodded. "And that knife we got had a brown, plastic handle, didn't it?"

Excitement shot through the older investigator. "These all have wooden handles." He smiled and looked around the room, trying to spot any other knives and failing. "If the knife was taken from here, the perpetrator would have grabbed the easiest weapon. I think it's a safe bet that he brought the knife with him."

"Which means he planned to use it all along."

Both men looked at Brass, whose face was set in a grim line. Suddenly the elation of discovery fell flat as the true horror of Jim's words sunk in. If the perp had planned to stab Greg, there was even less of a chance that Greg was still alive. Gil shook his head. "Nick, I want samples of all of Greg's knives sent to the lab just in case. Dust the drawers."

The younger man nodded in agreement, though he knew as well as Gil that the plastic-handled knife with Greg's blood hadn't come from this house.

xxx

Sara was soaked to the skin and disheartened but very determined. She'd finished staking out, marking, and photographing the perimeter, but the sudden storm had probably wrecked more evidence that she'd never know existed. If the perp left in Greg's car he had to get there by a different means, and any path he might have made on foot, or even with another vehicle, would be gone.

Looking next door to the house with the incredibly loud television show, she frowned even more. With her luck, they would have been oblivious to the loudest screams Greg could have produced that night. However, they were possible witnesses, and Sara was intent on catching them now before they got grumpy over losing sleep later.

She walked next door and knocked on the door . . . hard.

After several long minutes, the door opened wide, revealing a man dressed in casual slacks and a short-sleeved polo shirt. His had a handsome face set in a fierce frown, both eyes blackened and swollen. The man's nose was swollen and looked incredibly painful. He had a bandage over his head as well, as if he'd been injured in a nasty fist fight. Dark hair swept over his high forehead and part of the bandage.

The investigator didn't start with pleasantries, diving straight in. "There was an attack next door. Did you notice anything? Anybody?"

Blinking slowly, as if taken by surprise but too lethargic to respond any quicker, the man simply stood staring. Finally in a cultured voice he said, "Yes. I've noticed uniformed policemen and plain-clothes investigators crawling all over the place with flood lights and cameras flashing."

Annoyance flared and Sara frowned more severely. "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before the investigators and police arrived?"

"Yes," the man frowned back, but it looked more like he was frowning at his thoughts than at Sara's attitude. "The man next door works night shift, but I never noticed him leave tonight. Was he attacked? Injured? I don't see an ambulance." His dark eyes flicked towards Greg's place as if suddenly he realized he should be worried about his neighbor.

"How about this morning?" Sara wouldn't give an inch, and his sudden eye flicker towards her showed surprise.

Crossing his arms slowly over his chest, the man frowned. "I was at work. I went to work yesterday morning, worked through the night, and didn't return until late this afternoon. Do you think he was injured this morning?"

She shrugged, but the woman took in everything about this man: his bruises, his slow, deliberate movements, his measured words. Her instincts screamed that he could very well be covering something. "How did you get injured, Mister . . ."

"Lassiter," he supplied smoothly. "And is this pertinent to your investigation, Officer?"

Sara let her eyes rove over his swollen face and bandaged head. "It might be."

With a sigh the man shrugged, arms still crossed, and said in a weary tone, "I dropped something on the floor in my office and it rolled under the desk. I went after it and stood up too fast, hitting my head on the under-side of my desk. I was in such pain that I curled forward and hit my face, too. It was foolish, painful, and utterly embarrassing. Anything else, Officer?"

"I'm not a cop; I'm a crime scene investigator. Can anyone verify for you, Mister Lassiter?" Sara glanced behind the man through the wide-open door. She spotted an open doorway to a living area beyond, a huge television playing that overly loud sitcom.

"No and yes." That drew her attention back to the man, and she looked up at the taller man. He clarified, "No one saw me injured; I was alone and it was before most people came in this morning. However, there are security cameras everywhere at the office, and they can probably verify my whereabouts for yesterday, last night, and this morning . . . my co-workers can verify for yesterday and today as well. Perhaps a custodian noticed me during the night, but I was so busy, I didn't really notice anyone else." The man frowned severely at Sara as if suddenly realizing something. "Do you think I attacked the kid next door?"

_'Hardly a kid,'_ Sara couldn't help thinking. "It's standard procedure to eliminate the family, friends, and closest neighbors first, Mister Lassiter. With access to your office's security tapes, we can verify your alibi. A DNA sample and fingerprints can also help to rule you out," she gave him a look as if to say, _'Do you dare or are you hiding something?'_

Mr. Lassiter drew himself up to his full six feet one inch height, his back stiff, his face set in a severe frown meant to intimidate. "Miss . . ."

"Sidle, Sara Sidle," she provided.

"Ms. Sidle, I am a junior partner at the firm Goering, Harding, and Lassiter. We are prosecuting attorneys, and as such often work in full cooperation with the Nevada police and crime lab; however, I do not have the authority to release the security tapes to your department. You will need to speak to Jeffrey Goering for that. As for DNA and fingerprints, I find the implications insulting at the very least. Your lab insisted in letting my daughter's . . ." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly as he tried to gain control once more. Finally he nodded. "I will not give you my DNA or fingerprints, Ms. Sidle, and I am not authorized to give you the tapes. Your lab will have to pin this attack or whatever it is on somebody else."

Her eyes flashed and her frown deepened, but as she opened her mouth to speak, the man leaned forward and said, in a dangerously low voice, "Your lab is inadequate to find the most sloppy of criminals, Ms. Sidle, and should be shut down. Let us hope your case is not assigned to me; I will not be an easy prosecutor to please concerning slip-shod investigations and rigged evidence. Good night."

He shut the door in her face.

Sara clenched her fists and glared impotently at the door, pure hatred shining from her eyes. "Well, Mister Lassiter," she bit out, "You've just gone from obnoxious neighbor to top of my suspect list." She turned and stormed from the neighbor's porch, intent on letting Gil in on just what the man next door thought about the lab, his refusal of samples to clear himself . . . and his threat to the investigation itself.

xxx

Cath made her way carefully up the three steps and onto the stoop. Squatting down, she swabbed the pooled blood with several different sterile swabs. Using tweezers, the strawberry-blonde woman started picking up minute debris: various food chunks, some white chips, and a small bit of plastic wrap that had appeared to have temporarily adhered to a foot. She stayed as much out of Warrick's way as possible, as he was taking careful pictures of the faint footprints they had located on the steps. Glancing over the prints, she frowned and gestured to them. "Warrick, those are . . . odd . . ."

He nodded, immediately understanding what she referred to. "Some are more pronounced than others, but they're all of the same shoe type. I think the guy left the house then went back in for something before leaving again."

"He made more of a smudge on the one set of prints," Cath could see the crushed food and smeared blood under several rather defined prints. The other two sets seemed to be made by a lighter person, less smudging, less destruction, less defined. "I think he was carrying Greg during the heavy prints."

"That's a theory," Warrick added impassively. Grissom was harsh concerning theories, and Warrick understood why; the entire team did. So he wasn't about to go off on a tangent concerning preliminary assumptions. It could just as easily be that there had been two or more people of varying weights all wearing the same shoe.

The older investigator merely shot him an annoyed look, though she held her tongue. With a sigh she turned back to the evidence and noted something else. "Warrick, the heavy prints don't start until the steps themselves . . . where the drag marks end."

Warrick looked up, taking his eye from the camera. Looking over the prints and marks carefully, he nodded in agreement. "Now it's a working theory." He shot a carefully lined-up shot of the end of the drag marks and beginning of the more defined prints. "In fact, those lighter prints actually cross over the drag marks two or three times, Cath . . . as well as cross over the heavy prints." He looked at her. "I think you're right. Someone was most likely drug to the edge of the stoop then picked up and carried down the steps and over the driveway."

It was a small triumph in evidence translation, but the implications were that Greg had been incapacitated enough to need carrying . . . and the perpetrator dumped his victim somewhere then took his time to return to the house for something before finally leaving.

Cath softly asked, "What could he have wanted so bad that he had to come back? It couldn't have been to hide the knife; he sent it to us."

"Maybe," Warrick said, his voice tight, "that was why he returned: for souvenirs."

In answer Cath groaned softly and moved to take a sample from the threshold of the door itself. She worried about their young friend and colleague. No one was exactly certain just how long Greg had been injured and missing. Eyes widening Cath sudden hit upon an answer, almost cursing herself for forgetting the basics in her worry over Greg.

"Warrick, this blood is several hours old . . ."

His head shot up and he scrutinized the trails before him. With a nod, he agreed, feeling a bit of excitement bubble but drop at the further indication that Greg had been hurt for a long time without help. "Some is wet still, meaning there may be an anti-coagulant in here. Greg's not on medicine, is he?"

A smile rippled across the still-pretty face of the older woman. "Not that I know of. Which means . . ."

"The wet blood could be our perpetrator's," Warrick finished, an answering smile on his face.

Despite the sound of sirens, the voices of law enforcement talking back and forth, the pounding of the rain, and the blaring sitcom next door, the musical ring-tone of a single cell phone seemed to shatter the night. Cath jumped and retrieved her phone, flicking the answer button and calling out, "Catherine Willows." What she heard sent a chill right through her.

"It's eleven P.M. Do you know where your daughter is?" The deep voice cut off and the connection ended.

Cath stared in horror at her phone as it issued the buzz of a disconnected phone call.


	8. If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nevada Police Codes: 425: Suspicious situation; 422: Officer down; 444: Officer needs emergency assistance; 428: Missing person; and 418: Kidnap.
> 
> Setting: Las Vegas, Nevada: Thursday, July 21, 2005, morning

“Warrick, call my house.” The desperation in Cath’s voice as she called out made the other investigator pull out his phone without question. He dialed quickly, listening for an answering voice, as he watched his friend.

She was busy hitting the sequence of buttons needed to get a phone number on the last in-coming call. Hissing in shock, her blue eyes wide in horror, Cath’s face went even paler than it had when she’d first answered her phone. When Warrick said, “Yes, I’ve got Catherine right here,” she all but snatched the phone from his willing fingers. “Mom? Where’s Lindsey?”

“Lindsey? She’s in bed, Catherine.” Her mother’s voice was tired, but the sounds of movement could be heard through the line. She must have been alerted by the distress in her daughter’s voice.

“Check anyway,” Cath demanded. She offered her own phone to Warrick, who listened to the recorded message concerning the last in-coming number. His green eyes widened as much as Cath’s had as the significance of the number made a neat fit with Cath’s reactions.

Over the cell phone, Cath could hear her mother calling her daughter, a door clicking open. The sound of a sleepy teenager barely sounded when Cath called out in relief, “Lindsey?”

Her mother confirmed, “I told you she was here, Catherine. What’s wrong?” Before the investigator could answer, her mother hissed, “Did you get a body that looked like her?”

Cath sighed and tried to calm herself, unaware that her relieved shout had drawn the attention of the other investigators. “No, but something like that. Thanks, Mom. Tell Lindsey I love her…” She wanted to tell her daughter herself, but there was something even more pressing happening at the scene. Cath was finally aware of the attention she’d drawn.

She hung up and passed Warrick’s phone back to him as she turned worried eyes to her supervisor and long-time friend. “Gil, I just got a call that I believe is from our perpetrator.” She gestured to her phone, still next to Warrick’s ear.

The man nodded and offered it to Gil. “The number is Greg’s cell phone.”

Sara frowned, Jim crossed his arms, and Nick leaned forward as if to try to hear the recorded message himself. Grissom merely listened, then shut the phone off, looking at Cath. “What did he say?”

“It wasn’t Greg, Gil.” She shook her head, taking her phone back and staring at it as if it were some disappointing subject. “It was a deep voice, a man’s, and he said ‘It’s eleven P.M.; do you know where your daughter is?’ Then he just hung up.”

Gil nodded and frowned, but his words were quick and sure. “We’ll get Archie to try to trace where the call came from… where Greg’s phone is. As of a few minutes ago, someone’s got it and using it.” He slipped the phone out of her hands once more.

With a deeper frown, Sara pointed out, “This means that if it’s Greg’s attacker, he also knows Cath’s got a kid.”

“Yes,” Gil looked towards the younger woman then turned back to the worried mother. Without looking at the homicide captain next to him, he asked, “Jim, do you think we could get police protection for Cath’s mother and Lindsey?”

“Done,” Brass barked out, pulling his radio and making the necessary orders.

Turning back to the group, marking each one with a serious expression before looking at the next, Gil Grissom finally spoke up. “As soon as you’re done out here, come in by the front door. We’ll regroup inside and get this scene processed. We’ve got to find Greg and stop this guy from going after anyone else.” He turned and carefully made his way back inside, not returning Cath’s cell phone.

The rest gave each other silent looks then turned back to their immediate work. Cath’s hands were shaking so badly, Warrick started retrieving the evidence for her, letting her try to collect herself. The same thing was on everyone’s minds: why was the man targeting the investigators? There was no doubt that was what was happening, after all.

xxx

An hour after the disturbing phone call, the entire group stood inside Greg’s bedroom, reviewing what evidence they had and the information gathered so far. They chose not to go back to the lab just yet, instead utilizing the apparently untouched room for their temporary command site. Sara had just finished telling them of her encounter with Greg’s lawyer neighbor, and the group was now listening to Cath’s translation of the blood evidence throughout the house and outside; she was utilizing their sketches to help demonstrate her points.

“From the various blood patterns, prints, and other trace left behind, I would say Greg fought back hard before he was finally incapacitated and drug off.”

xxx

A dark figure, in equally dark clothes, grabbed his victim just under the shoulders. Greg’s head lolled sideways; he was unconscious and bleeding. Tugging carefully, the man made his slow way down the carpeted hall, blood dripping from his hand and mixing with the blood flowing from Greg’s injured head. Once in the tiled kitchen, he was able to move a bit quicker, but the trail still led through the destruction of the dish of stew that had broken in there.

The man ignored the mess, his goal the door and the car beyond. With determination, he pulled Greg from the well-lit house onto the darkened porch, stopping as he reached the steps. The man swiftly made his way down the three stairs and headed for the Volkswagen Passat sitting innocently in the driveway. He produced the keys, opened the trunk, and headed back to the steps; once more in front of his victim, he stooped and gripped his heavy burden. With a bit of tugging, he managed to get the bleeding man onto his shoulders and stagger towards the small car, finally getting to the trunk and dumping the unwieldy load inside. With a bit of readjusting and shoving, he got the unconscious man tucked neatly into the small space then shut the trunk with a harsh click.

Ominously, he returned to the house, slipping inside to retrieve his knife and several personal prizes belonging to his victim, not the least of which was the phone he planned on using to scare Greg’s coworker.

xxx

“We’ll know better if Greg was put in the trunk or back seat when we develop the photos, but if no one noticed a bleeding, unconscious man in the back seat of someone’s car, he was probably in the trunk.” No one added that Greg could have easily been in his own back seat and no one felt like getting involved by reporting it; that thought was too disheartening.

“Either way,” Cath continued, “someone bled by both the trunk and the driver’s side back door… unless we want to get technical and say he bled by the hood and the passenger’s side front door.” No one decided to play semantics and the redhead nodded. “We can also assume, for now, that our perp drove off in Greg’s car, rather than Greg driving it off. Though, if he was injured and bleeding, he staunched it before moving to the front door of the vehicle . . . no blood drops in the gravel there.” Cath’s voice was determined. She was going to try to ignore her fears for Lindsey; Brass had promised protection for the teenager and the elderly Mrs. Flynn.

Nick nodded, adding his preliminary findings. “We discovered that our bloody knife probably didn’t come from Greg’s kitchen; his knife block is full and the one we received doesn’t match any of the eating knives in the drawers.” He crossed his arms. “What is missing, though, besides his cell phone,” he nodded to Cath but didn’t go further into the terrifying experience she’d had with Greg’s cell number, “is his badge and kit. If he’s got a little black book, we haven’t found that, either.”

With a slow, thoughtful look from the bedroom into the still disarrayed living room, Gil firmly stated, “Okay. Let’s do one last run through of the crime scene then head back to the lab. We’ve got a lot to process and,” he was cut off by the sound of a ring-tone coming from his pocket. Frowning, Gil retrieved Cath’s cell phone, putting it carefully to his ear. “Hello?”

His frown deepened and he asked, “Who is this?” A look of disgust crossed Gil’s face as he closed the connection. “Jim? We’ve got police protection for Cath’s family, right?”

Fear shot across Cath’s face and she gratefully accepted Nick’s hand of support.

“Yeah; verified it half-an-hour ago, Gil,” Brass informed the group.

Grissom nodded then looked at Cath then back to the phone in his hand. His words were for Jim, though. “Call and find out where Lindsey is . . . as a precaution. We’ll need this line monitored, as well.”

“What did he say, Gil?” Cath jumped in, her voice trembling.

The supervisor looked at her, his face grim, and answered, “It’s twelve A.M. midnight. Do you know where your daughter is?”

xxx

Exhaustion gripped the injured man and he was forced to stop trying to open the broken emergency trunk release. He’d been at it for what seemed like hours, his fingers slipping on the now rain-wet metal, rubber, and fiberglass. In his efforts, he even managed to snag his nude torso on a bit of protruding metal, ripping his flesh even more than it had already been. He still had double vision, his hands were trembling from fatigue and pain, and now that he’d had some water and, embarrassingly enough, relieved himself, he was beginning to feel extremely hungry.  
Greg was, in all, miserable.

But alive, he reminded himself. I’m still alive. Almost perversely, his odd sense of humor leapt to the fore and the words of a Meat Loaf song started running through his head. Not fighting it, Greg started humming along with his thoughts as he slowly reached a shaking hand around. There was something large and hard wedged under his legs, and the investigator wanted to find out what it was. He stopped mid-tune when his hand stroked the clasp of the metal forensics kit he’d tiredly left in his car upon reaching home.

Wanting to crow in delight, Greg began the tedious, painful task of manipulating his long frame in the small confines of his trunk, trying desperately to shift around to where he could get into the waiting kit. For one, there was a flash light in there, so he could actually see what he was doing. Secondly, among the many supplies he had neatly categorized and stored in the box, there was also a screw driver. True, it wasn’t standard equipment, but after that incident where Sara couldn’t remove a bloodstained door due to lack of a screwdriver and the presence of an over-abundance of explosives, he’d slipped a brand new flat-head into his kit on the off chance it might come in handy.

Boy was someone smiling on him that fateful day.

Suddenly, pain ripped through his side once more as his injured flank tore open, bleeding anew and causing nausea to nearly overwhelm him. Tears of frustration welled up, pouring easily down the battered man's cheeks, followed closely by anger at his situation and the person who put him into it. He slammed his hand as hard as he could on the trunk lid, kicking his cramped legs at the sidewall of his car’s trunk.

A click was heard and suddenly Greg was inundated by rain and wind as the trunk popped wide open. Stunned, the investigator took a few precious minutes to lie there, just letting the water run over him, wondering at the miracle that a good jarring had finally knocked loose the damaged latch. Then intelligence reasserted itself and he grasped the trunk edge to pull himself out and over the lip, falling in a heap on the ground. Several pain-filled minutes passed as Greg heaved, the nausea getting the better of him after hours of dehydrating heat and lack of sustenance in a very poorly-aired trunk.

The only thing the weakened man could do was pray his kidnapper didn’t come back to finish the job while he was lying there too weak to defend himself.


	9. Picking up the Pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Friday, July 22, 2005, just after midnight

"Have we got a trace on this bastard yet?" Sara's voice held anger and a hint of fear. Threatening the team members was one thing; they were law enforcement workers; it came with the territory. Threatening innocent kids was a whole other ball of wax and it really rankled in Sara's breast. "I mean, we know it's Greg's phone; let's trace it."

Gil shook his head, slowly turning back towards the bedroom doorway. His quiet, "We can't trace it when it's off, Sara," held enough pain and sorrow to make the younger woman want to kick herself. She'd forgotten, for just a moment, that only last month Lindsay had been kidnapped while under Gil's supervision. It must have taken a lot out of the man to know Cath's daughter was in mortal danger and he'd been the one to _'let'_ it happen.

Growling her anger and support Sara followed her supervisor from the room, trailed by Warrick, Nick, Jim, and, finally, a barely controlled Cath. As they carefully made their way through the crime scene that was their friend's home, the mother's worried voice asked shakily, "Gil, could he be back? Could he be messing with us . . . or did he really find Lindsay again?"

Jim frowned severely and turned a fierce look on Cath, but his expressive eyes held pain and sympathy. "I'll have his partner checked, Cath, and warn the guys on your family."

"Would you like some time, Cath? Spend it with Lindsay?" Gil's soft query stopped the worried woman in her tracks, and by her long moment of silent hesitation it was obvious the offer sorely tempted her. She shook her head and called back, in a much stronger tone, "I trust Jim's men. Greg needs me . . . and if that guy has anything to do with this, I'm one of the few who Lindsay's described him to. I know what the bastard looks like, Gil."

The man nodded and walked carefully into the kitchen without another word.

"I've got Vega on her, Cath." Jim's voice was quiet, offering hope, support. "Sam's one of the best I've got . . . the only one better is me."

Cath shot him a grateful, tremulous smile. "And Greg needs you more right now. I'll be fine; Lindsay's safe with Vega and Mom."

Nodding back in affirmation Jim headed towards the door, glancing absently out the nearby window as he passed. Stopping mid-stride, he inadvertently blocked the safest path through the debris, causing Warrick to nearly run him down.

"Whoa!"

"Is that . . . what it looks like?" Jim flicked his hand towards the window, pointing.

Back-tracking from door to table, Sara, too, looked out the window. Her eyes grew wider before she determinedly headed right past Gil and out the door. The others tried to see what Jim had noticed and were surprised that they'd over-looked such a valuable seeming lead for so long: a red-stained towel tossed in among the bushes in front of the window.

Carefully Nick started photographing and examining the window before finally sliding it open. "There's no indication the guy opened the window to throw it there; it probably came from the other side." He could see Sara on the other side, frowning and looking intently around the area.

"Can't see it from here. Can you reach it, Nick?" She pulled her camera out, ignoring the storm ripping at the canvas and lighting system. Instead, she shot off several photos of different angles of the bushes and ground area around it.

Nick called back, "Yeah, give me a sec," and snapped off one more photo. He reached out the window then leaned out, barely aware that two sets of hands grabbed him for added support. Thankful he hadn't yet removed his gloves, he carefully snagged the edge of the bloody-looking towel. "Got it!" Warrick and Brass helped Nick back into the room as Gil watched solemnly.

Sara hurried back towards the stoop but stopped short when her phone rang. With a deeper frown, she pulled off a glove then flicked her phone open. "Sara Sidle."

"You live alone."

Icy-cold fear replaced annoyance. The blood drained from the investigator's face and her hand began to tremble. The voice on the other side was obviously computer-enhanced, it didn't sound human. Again, it spoke.

"You live very alone."

"Who the hell is this?" Her scared, angry shout instantly brought the attention of the other investigators. Ignoring their worried, confused faces, Sara listened with deepening anger to the laughter on the other side. "You bastard! I'll hunt you down and . . ." the sound of the phone call being cut off effectively ended her tirade, and she started pushing buttons and sequences to try to figure out who had just called her.

Warrick's hand reached out and softly covered her wrist, but her instinctive jump told the group what they needed to know: someone had just threatened another investigator. "Sara? Tell me what he said."

Her eyes blazed as she lifted her head and the intense anger there did little to hide the underlying fear her friend could sense. "The bastard's calling from Greg's phone. It's gotta be the same asshole."

"What did he say, Sara?" Gil's authoritative tone cut through, drawing a nearly surprised look from her.

Taking a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in her hands, Sara made a quick and potentially valuable decision. Leaving her cell phone activated, she offered it to her supervisor with a growl of, "He knows I live alone, Gil. He's trying to threaten me at home." She watched him gingerly take her phone and added "Really, it was to the point. He said _'You live alone. You live very alone.'_ It was computer altered, though." As her friends and teammates continued to hover protectively around the young woman, she added, "And there was no inflection difference when he added the word _'very.'_ He was just as conversational as if he was telling me my car lights are on."

Gil nodded, giving a cursory glance at the screen of the cell phone, noting that the last received call did indeed come from Greg's cell and no one had made any attempt at hiding the fact. He looked up. "He doesn't care if we know he's the kidnapper . . . or that he's the same one threatening Lindsay."

Sara took a deep, steadying breath as Cath put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Jim finally jumped back into the conversation, sounding calm, "And we've got more information right? Let's get out of this rain . . ."

Suddenly everyone seemed aware that they were still standing outside Greg's house. Individually the added thought sunk in that the kidnapped might be able to watch them there . . . might actually be able to glean information as they discussed the case at Greg's back door. In silent accord, the entire group collected their equipment and evidence containers and headed for their vehicles, destined for the lab and a full night of work . . . laced with fear and worry.

As the last Tahoe pulled away, the only things remaining at the crime scene were the lighting and tarp system and three very wet police officers endlessly patrolling the original kidnapping site of a fellow law enforcement employee.

xxx

Cold started to seep into his nude torso, the rain lashing over Greg like needles. At first he had been unaware of how painful it was; relief and nausea had combined to distract him most effectively. As time passed, however, the young investigator became increasingly aware of the danger he faced . . . danger from more than just his assailant. Not only was the kidnapper a threat, but staying out in that weather dressed only in a pair of boxers wasn't the safest of ideas, either.

Pushing up to his hands and knees, his arms were shaking with the effort; Greg's ordeal had left him very weak. He gritted his teeth, grimacing briefly at the lashing rain and the tearing wound to his side, and pushed himself further up. Catching the lip of his trunk, Greg hoisted his bruised, aching body even further up.

He had to find help. That guy could be back at any time.

Once on his feet, Greg leaned against his car, moving as quickly as his debilitation would allow. He reached into the trunk and flicked open his case, pulling out the flashlight and screwdriver . . . one never knew when a weapon would be needed and Greg didn't have much of anything else available to him.

After only a few moments, the young man pulled out some of his supplies and started to construct a makeshift bandage for his side, grimacing at the pain and the horrible sight of the damaged flesh; it looked as if it had been chewed on. Using collection papers and lifting tape would provide only temporary cover for the wound, and Greg swore silently that he would add a first aid kit to his supplies when this was done. He followed the ministrations to his side with dressing his head wound as best he could; it would have to do.

An unidentified noise brought the investigator to instant stillness, warily listening for a repeat. His entire, pain-filled body tensed as he waited. _Is my attacker coming back? Is it some other kind of threat?_ When the noise repeated, a snorting-snoring noise, Greg frowned and glanced quickly around his surroundings.

Shock washed over him.

This wasn't some playground parking lot in the heart of Las Vegas; it was a camp ground. Slowly he turned his gaze over the vegetation, the nearby water, and the myriad RV's mixed with the occasional tent or passenger car. Jaw dropping Greg recognized just where his kidnapper had parked: Lake Mead. _Why the hell did he kidnap me, drive me all the way to a camp ground in a well-inhabited resort, then abandon me?_ It made little sense.

Throbbing in his side reminded Greg that he was still in danger from his injuries, not just his mysterious, and probably extremely warped, abductor. Leaving the trunk open might give his escape away too quickly; if that guy came back, Greg wanted him delayed from pursuing too quickly. The young investigator reached up to try to shut the trunk, but remembered his training suddenly. If he tried to close the trunk, he risked damaging vital evidence . . . fingerprints, blood spatter, and even tool marks. He'd be best to leave it open.

What was he thinking? The incessant rain was destroying evidence already and would destroy the evidence inside the trunk, as well. What he needed was to get the car into a safe location. Without keys he couldn't do more than try to keep it locked up. Sighing, Greg reached in, pulled out his case, then reached up and gripped the trunk lid, slamming it down hard, smiling grimly as it caught the first time. He'd learned from his kidnapper's earlier attempts, after all.

Knowing he had to get moving, Greg still took the time to carefully swab blood on the trunk. He'd hurt the man in their initial struggle, and there was every chance the perpetrator's blood had fallen to the trunk surface during the kidnapping and subsequent threats. These few swabs could make a world of difference to catching his attacker and keeping him behind bars for a very long time . . . according to the _Little Lindbergh Laws_ , if someone kidnapped a person with intent to harm or kill and moved the victim from the original location, it constituted a capital offense. Some states even had the death penalty attached to such a crime.

Finally he was on the move, and a new world of hurt opened up as he used muscles cramped and abused from hours in his trunk. Walking quickly exacerbated his injuries and he could feel his side bleeding heavily into the make-shift bandage he'd made. He could only hope the tape held out until he reached help. The case was not too heavy though he suspected it would feel heavier as he went. Fortunately the flashlight had new batteries. His main worry, aside from the bleeding, was the unexpected return of the man who'd captured him in the first place.


	10. Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Friday, July 22, 2005, just after midnight

As soon as the team got back to the lab, controlled chaos ensued. Evidence techs mixed among the investigators, aiding in logging and beginning the processing on the collected evidence. Blood, trace, DNA, audio-visual, and other labs shunted most work to the side, prioritizing the missing investigator over anyone else. No further contact had come in their absence, so they only had to go on what they'd collected and the initial package containing Greg's shirt and wallet.

Though each investigator wanted to work their own evidence specialty, they let their highly trained techs do it. Rather, the group met in the cramped briefing room, a grim echo of a meeting interrupted by a plain brown package. No one sat down.

"Okay, what do we know?" Gil kept his voice calm, neutral, despite the rage and fear pulsing with every beat of his heart. They'd gone through this two months previously when Nick had been kidnapped and buried alive. Gil had experienced it again in June when Lindsey was taken. Now they all lived it again with Greg. Gil Grissom felt old and tired.

"Greg was last seen this morning coming off shift. He drove away in his Passat." Gil began the rundown as he looked around the table. "He didn't mention any plans to stop anywhere or meet anyone. He never showed for work and his wall phone was off the wall. His cell phone wasn't at the scene, but later used to phone both Cath and Sara."

Jumping right into it, Brass nodded. "At shift change tonight a package was delivered to the police station. The woman claimed it was sitting on her porch. The package contained a knife, a crowbar, a wallet, and a t-shirt."

Nick nodded, taking up the recital. "There was broken china and food from the refrigerator through part of Greg's kitchen. Someone walked through it, something was drug through it, and something or someone bled on the debris. The food and china did not lead out of the kitchen to the rest of the house, but appeared to be drug with the heavy object towards the back door." He glanced through his notes. "No knives were missing from the kitchen, but the trash can didn't have a bag in it."

Drawing a breath and shifting in his seat, Warrick straightened then said, "trail of blood down the hall to the living room where the laptop was smashed. Blood . . ."

The door opened, interrupting Warrick and drawing all eyes. Archie leaned in the door, panting. "There's a call for Grissom on the main line, and I got a hit on Greg's car."

Gil rose and hurried out, followed by the entire group. They headed to the hall outside the audio-visual lab, Gil and Archie heading directly inside. Gil grabbed the phone and said, "This is Grissom."

"Are you supervisor?" The voice was electronically altered and Gil stiffened.

Keeping calm, voice turning colder, Gil responded "who is this?"

"Are you father?" There was no change in inflection. The modulated voice could have been produced by an emotionless machine.

"Who is this?" Gill repeated, fighting his anger.

"Are you parole officer?"

Gil frowned severely, but continued calmly, "tell me what you want."

The phone clicked then buzzed in a disconnected drone.

Slowly, Gil handed the phone to Archie without hanging up. "Were we tracing that call?" He met the Asian-American's eyes, keeping his thoughts private for the moment.

Archie nodded. "Yeah. We always trace in-comings." He hurried to his computers and brought up the right program, while a second screen blinked with the information about Greg's car. "We'll have that . . . oh," the tech sighed and his face twisted in confusion. "Greg's cell phone. Give me a moment and I can find the latest pings, triangulate the locale." His fingers flew over the keyboard as he worked.

Sara cleared her throat and asked, "Griss, what did he say?"

Without pulling his eyes from Archie's screens, Gil responded, "He said _'are you supervisor. Are you father. Are you parole officer.'_ No change of tone."

"Father?" Cath went pale, hands beginning to shake.

Gil finally turned to look at the team, his eyes meeting Cath's and holding them, blue on green. "Brass, bring Lindsey and Mrs. Flynn to the lab. I want them guarded at all times but near Cath. I want someone sent to check on each of the local families of lab personnel. Check on each of the day shift crew to make sure they're okay."

Cath's eyes softened in gratitude as Brass hurried out of the room, pulling out his phone to get the process started. "He's called me, Sara, and you, Gil. He's got Greg."

Nodding, Gil turned back the Archie's screens. "I think he's targeting the lab. Hodges, I want to know which papers ran the story about Nick's kidnapping." He ignored the wince from Nick. "Cath, call New York and see if Taylor has had problems. Archie, you mentioned a hit on the car?"

As Cath took Hodges's suddenly offered phone, offering a smile for the trace tech, Archie turned back to his second screen.

"Yeah. He was pulled over this morning just before eight. He was given a warning but nothing on his record. I found it in the routine logs." Archie, glanced up from where he still worked the trace, not bothering to look at the other screen. He knew what it said.

Gil never took his eyes from the police log. "Bring that cop in, Sara. He just became the last person to see Greg alive."

xxx

Las Vegas: Friday, July 22, 2005, just after midnight:

Greg slowly made his painful way around parked RV's and tow cars. The rain had ended any campfire parties and the vacationing families were tucked up warm and dry in their mobile quarters. Shifting his grip on the forensics kit, Greg wrapped his other arm around his injured side and slogged on. Water ran down his almost nude body, his boxers clinging uncomfortably with each step.

Shivering, the investigator rounded the back end of a large SUV parked next to a rather tiny pop-up camper and jumped in shock, falling backwards onto the muddy grass.

A scream ripped through the air as the little girl he'd nearly run into responded in equal shock. She held her raincoat tight over her bathrobe, her boots sloshing as she stepped back and drew breath to scream again.

"Kara!" The camper door screeched open and a lady tumbled off the step, picking herself up from the mud. She was dressed in a pink nightgown and had bare feet. "Kara! What happened?" She reached for her daughter then noticed Greg and screamed.

"My god, woman! You'll wake the whole camp!" A small, lean man with pajama bottoms and a thin undershirt leaned from the camper, his posture stiff with annoyance.

The woman pulled her daughter to her, glaring at Greg. "Get away from my daughter you freak!"

Holding up his hand and gasping, Greg shook his head. "No . . ." his teeth began to chatter and his vision started to go into a tunnel effect. "Need help . . . hurt . . ." Greg tried to stand but collapsed, face first to the mud, wrapping both arms around his abdomen and groaning at the stab of fresh pain through his side. "Damn!"

The world darkened and sound grew distant as he tried once more. "Hurt . . . please . . . gre . . ." and he passed out before he could tell them his name.


	11. The Evidence Mounts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Friday, July 22, 2005, just after midnight

Sara didn't care how late it was; she intended to bring in the cop who'd stopped Greg. Fortunately, she had a little pull in the police department in the form of the senior homicide detective. As he walked back into the meeting room, she turned to the older, heavy-set man and said, "Brass? I could use some help."

Jim Brass nodded and pulled his own phone out again. "All yours, Sara." He dialed quickly, grimly watching Hodges processing the towel. The other man was meticulous as he worked the evidence from his friend's home, and Brass could only have faith that the care these investigators took now would help catch the bastard who'd taken fun-loving, happy Greg. Nick's all-too-recent kidnapping was still fresh in his mind . . . and the fact that Nick had almost died by red ant toxins as well as explosives.

_What sick things is he doing to Greggo?_ Nick carefully sorted through the blood and food debris. He moved a white solid piece of what seemed to be china to a separate container. A shudder wracked the young investigator and he knew eventually someone would recall that he was supposed to be on light duty. His own ordeal had only been a couple of months ago, so he wasn't supposed to have any serious cases: the police shrink even had him on sleep medicine and anti-anxiety meds. Nick still jumped whenever a flashlight turned on in his face.

He'd been assured that Post Traumatic Stress was a very normal result: Greg had gone through it when the lab had blown up around him and again, just a month ago, during that hostage situation at the local prison. _Damn! Would the kid ever get a break?_ Nick swore further under his breath, the face mask blocking any heavy exhales from interfering with the evidence. _And there it is: that irrational guilt over being unable to protect someone else . . . that deep-down gratitude that he, Nick, had been the one kidnapped so the others didn't have to go through the ordeal._

Nick stepped back from the table and turned to Cath. Pulling off his mask, he gasped, "I need air." His hands were beginning to shake so he didn't even bother removing the gloves as he pushed past the older woman. She stopped his flight by grabbing him into a secure hug.

Running a hand through Nick's hair, Cath held tight, stopping him from running away. "I'm here, Nicky. I'm here."

He sobbed, burying his face into her shoulder, trembling as a wave of guilt and horror engulfed him.

Gil frowned at the scene but didn't interrupt. Instead, he walked into the lab and pulled fresh gloves on. He took up where Nick had left off. Gil should have known it was too soon to throw Nick on something this serious. The young man was on light field duty, supposed to be confined to the lab. He shouldn't have been sent with Brass on the welfare check, should never have been exposed to the crime scene that was once Greg's home. _Damn it, I should have sent him on the burglary instead of Sara._

"No ransom note." Jacqui Franco walked past Gil to collect the blood samples they'd gathered.

"What?" He looked up, blinking away the daze of introspection he tended to.

Jacqui looked at him and sighed. "Nothing like with Nick. No ransom demands or delivery other than the box. This sicko isn't giving us a chance to negotiate for Greg's return."

Warrick's voice cut through the woman's rant. "Yeah, well, we found Nick and we'll find Greg. This guy's been leaving a calling card every time he calls one of us." The lean African-American straightened, his green eyes staring into the distance. "The phone calls . . ." Turning, he sprinted down the hall and back into the recently deserted audio-visual domain of Archie Johnson.

"We need to log every call from Greg's cell."

Archie nodded. "It'd be easier with the actual phone." He pulled up information on his computer, though, content to be doing something since Hodges was still pulling trace off the laptop.

"And we need to log what he said and did every time he called. He must be using Greg's call list from the phone," Warrick added.

Nick pulled out of Cath's embrace and turned towards the trace lab once more. The sounds of his friends and coworkers doing their job, working so hard at solving this case and rescuing Greg, instilled him with a determined, if temporary, calm. "Can I help, Gil?" His voice shook, but he was once more under control.

Gil looked up and nodded towards Audio-Visual. "Why don't you log the calls for Warrick. Mine would have been recorded on the lab security records." And just like that, Gil accepted the wounded man back into the fold, providing him the catharsis of work he so desperately wanted.

The sound of the outer door opening drew almost all attention.

A stocky, middle-aged police officer in patrol uniform strode in, followed by the lab security officer. "Sir?" the officer looked to Brass. "I was pulled from duty . . ." he tried not to sound annoyed at the trouble this summons had caused. Brass wasn't known to foolishly rearrange schedules.

Brass nodded. "Sara Sidle, this is Officer Herman Davis."

The petite brunette looked over the larger officer and nodded, never smiling or greeting the man. Instead, she turned towards Audio-Visual. "You have a recording setup on your radio car." It wasn't a question.

Officers Davis and Brass followed the investigator into the lab, ignoring Warrick, Nick, and Archie as they followed Sara to a separate computer set in the corner.

Sliding into the waiting chair, Sara looked at the patrolman. "You logged pulling over a Greg Sanders yesterday at the end of your shift. Greg Sanders has since been reported missing. We need access to your log and recordings."

Spine stiffening, Officer Davis nodded and leaned around the younger woman. He typed quickly, accessing the police dash-cam database as well as his call-in logs. "I think I recall him. Silver Passat, weaving. Guy said he was at the end of his shift, too, and must have dozed. I told him to get to bed and decided not to cite him." The recording popped up on the screen and everyone froze to watch as the familiar Passat pulled to the side of the road.  
"Dawn," Sara breathed. Greg had been gone at least twelve hours longer than anyone had guessed. Twelve hours extra for goodness knew what torture and deprivation.

The officer in the recording walked to Greg's driver's side, flashing the light over the car. He spoke into the window, his every word audible, though the driver muttered, his answers unheard by the dash-cam. Finally, the officer stepped back, watched the Passat drive slowly away, then strode back to his car and made his report.

"Can you describe the driver?" Sara asked.

The cop nodded and shrugged. "Forty or fifty year old white male dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He had a bandaged nose."

Sara looked up at the man, eyes widening. "Greg doesn't look older than twenty-five."

"He wasn't driving," Warrick breathed. "Play that again, Sara."

The officer leaned over and retyped his access so they could watch the entire stop again: the cop pulling over the car, walking over and talking to the driver, watching the car drive slowly off, then giving his report in a tired voice.

"Again," Gil's voice broke over the still lab.

Archie replaced Sara at the computer so the officer wouldn't be required to once again type in his passwords. Archie had a level of clearance that allowed this kind of access. He played the recording again.

The officer got out of his radio car, shining his flashlight over the silver Passat.

"Freeze it!" Gil's voice rose in excitement. "Enlarge on the trunk."

When the image enlarged, they could all see what had caught Gil's eye. Red smudged the bumper near the trunk closure and a scrap of teal cloth stuck out of the trunk.

"My God!" Cath clutched Gil's arm. "Greg's in the trunk!"

Everyone jumped when the sound of a cell phone rang out in a country themed ring tone. All eyes watched Nick as he pulled out the phone and flicked the on switch. "Hello," he said, eyes meeting those of his comrades. "Nick Stokes . . ."


	12. Calling Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Friday, July 22, 2005, about one o'clock in the morning

Everyone seemed to hold his breath as Nick listened to whoever was on the other end of the cell phone call. He frowned as he listened then asked, "what the hell?" Still no one dared interrupt and Nick's posture stiffened. Slowly he said "and when do I pick him up?"

Cath turned wide green eyes to Gil, whose blue eyes narrowed in intensity. She mouthed the words _'ransom drop?'_ to which Gil merely frowned further.

His mind already raced through why Nick would be the one who'd been called for the ransom and dreaded that it was one more sick mind-game this bastard was playing: he probably knew Nick had been kidnapped and buried alive for over twelve hours.

Nick's soft, "I'll be there. And, no, it won't be any trouble," drew a wavering breath from Sara. He hung up the phone, frowning, and slid it into his pocket rather than handing it over or checking the caller identification. Slowly, Nick looked around the lab, his expression changing to one of hesitation then regret. "Oh, it was a personal call, not Greg."

A collective sigh of disappointment exploded into the room and Nick felt a fresh wave of irrational guilt. In self-defense he filled them in on more than he normally might have. "The court awarded me temporary protective custody of my nephew, Jon, while he awaits arraignment and trial in Texas. They're doing it to get him out of Dad's jurisdiction and because my brother doesn't want him in the system."

"What happened to your nephew Jon?" asked Sara softly.

Shaking his head, looking a bit shocked by the news now that it started sinking in, he replied "allegedly he broke into a local animal shelter, vandalized it, set it on fire, and killed some of the animals, including two very valuable horses being housed there for a ranch abuse case." Nick ran his hand through his close-cropped brown hair. "I have a hard time believing Jon would do something like that. He loves animals more than people, especially horses." Darting his eyes to Cath's face, he added, "Jon's Lindsey's age. If he did it, I'm willing to bet he wasn't alone. He's fallen in with a rough crowd recently. Bill thinks being housed out of familiar territory and with law enforcement will control him for awhile." Nick shrugged. "I think it's their way of keeping an eye on me, too. They worry since . . . well . . . a couple months ago."

Cath nodded and put a hand on Nick's arm, gently reassuring him. She took a steadying breath and turned back to the frozen close-up of Greg's trunk. "We now know," she said, trying to get back to the job at hand, drawing all attention back to the real emergency, "that Greg went missing around dawn. Based on the evidence we received, and this shot, it's probable Greg was in his own trunk."

"Damn," Officer Davis moaned low. "You mean I let a kidnapper go with his vic in the trunk?" The man stumbled and Brass put a hand up to prevent him knocking into any of the sensitive equipment in the lab.

"Come on, Herman." Jim Brass gripped the taller man's arm in a firm hand and guided him past the investigators into the hall. He sat the patrolman down and accepted a paper cup of water from Bobbie Dawson, who had nothing to do on Greg's case since ballistics weren't involved.

Sara looked from the retreating officers back to the screen. "So, the kidnapper took Greg around dawn and drove him out of town up Lakeshore Road towards the Marina. Then he dropped off a package on a local woman's doorstep. Since then he's been calling various investigators to toy with us. There's been no mention of how to get Greg or why he's doing it."

Warrick added "he's enjoying messing with us, keeping us hoping we'll eventually get news of Greg, but at the same time threatening us, making us think one of us is the next target."

"He doesn't plan to give Greg back," Archie added and the group turned to the audio-visual tech. The Asian-American shrugged, hands shaking, and added, "he's had almost eighteen hours which means he's either caring for Greg's needs or dumped him already. He's given no clue where Greg is, so he doesn't want him found." Archie drew in a breath to steady himself, keeping his voice purposefully neutral. Greg was his best friend. "Basically, he either killed Greg already or plans to."

Groaning, Cath clenched her fists. No one had wanted to hear such a summary of the case, no matter how true it was. "We don't know Greg's dead yet," she offered defensively, clinging to hope.

The outside door opening again drew all attention and this time Cath couldn't hold back a sob of relief. Her mother and daughter were escorted into the lab's main hallway. Pulling off her gloves, Cath hurried out to reassure them.

Gil looked back at the car on the video. "We need to check the marinas and camp grounds." His voice sounded steady, infusing his staff with hope. Gil wasn't giving up on Greg, so they wouldn't. Even when Warrick had been at his last hope for Nick, Greg had continued to work the evidence and made a breakthrough. No one wanted to be the one who let Greg down now.

"I'll start checking. Bobby D, you and O'Reilly come with me," Warrick called, tagging their ballistics tech and one of the police officers on standby. The trio headed towards the door discussing their search parameters and making plans to ask for volunteers when the sound of a ringing cell phone froze them in their tracks.

A second sounding of the theme from _Star Trek_ filled the sudden silence and Archie pulled out his phone, a frown on his youthful features. He raised his eyes saying, "that's the tone I've got for Greg." He flicked the on button and said, as casually as possible, "Hey, Greg, it's one o'clock. Wha'cha need you vampire?"

Sara lifted an eyebrow at Archie's pretense of ignorance for Greg's kidnapping, but she didn't say anything as the look on Archie's face changed.

Finally, he hung up and offered the phone to Gil. "He laughed at me and said _'you've been working this case. You answered the phone.'_ Then he laughed some more and hung up. His voice modulator sucks; I don't think he's very high tech."

"You answered the phone . . ." Gil repeated, thoughts racing through the series of calls they'd received. "And you did. When he called the lab's main line looking for me. Did you tell him who you are when you answered it, Archie?"

Archie nodded. "Yeah. I didn't know he was playing phone tag yet, so I used standard phone protocol: name, lab, and how can I help."

"And he called me after I'd answered Cath's phone," Gil puzzled out loud.

Catching onto the train of thought, Nick added, "And Cath called Greg's cell when we were looking for him. The perp answered and listened to her. She told him it was Cath before she hung up."

"Playing phone tag," Hodges said, as if he fully understood the significance of the fact.

The trace technician's involvement went unnoticed as Sara shot down the theory. "But I never spoke to him on the phone until he called mine. If he's calling people he spoke to, why would he call me?"

Gil turned his unfathomable stare on the young brunette woman, looking through her into his own thoughts. "Calling people he spoke to," he echoed softly. "But you never called him."

"Right," Sara confirmed. "Unless he was at the burglary tonight or he's a member of the lab or police force." She straightened and mentally began to go through all the people she'd spoken to that night.

The lab phone broke the stillness yet again, causing everyone to jump. Jacqui reached it first and picked it up. "Jacqui Franco, Las Vegas Crime Lab, how can I help you?" she answered automatically then visibly paled at whatever was said. Gil moved to her side, waiting as she listened to the caller though she did not put on the speaker option. Finally, she said, "thank you. Someone's on their way. Keep security with him."

Jacqui hung up and looked at Gil, excitement and hope vibrating through her voice as she said "Las Vegas Central just got a John Doe in. Some family camping at Lake Mead found him."

Nick yelped "I'll check it out." He headed for the door, not waiting for permission, but Gil didn't stop him. Instead the older man signaled Sam Vega to join the investigator now that he was free from protective duty on Cath's family. Nick accepted the temporary body guard and both men headed out, followed by Warrick, Bobby D, and O'Reilly still intent on searching the recreational areas of Lake Mead. Even if Greg had been found, which was very unlikely, they still had a silver Passat to locate.

Sara shook her head in frustration going back to their current postulations. "But why'd he break pattern and call me?"

"Maybe he didn't break the pattern," Brass said, his voice low enough to exclude Cath's family as she led them to Gil's office. "Who did you talk to tonight?"

"Only cops and investigators, Brass," Sara replied, expression darkening with the thought that one of Las Vegas' finest had kidnapped Greg. "But that _would_ explain how he has so much knowledge of our lives."


	13. Investigative Questioning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Las Vegas: Friday, July 22, 2005, around two o'clock in the morning

"Who canvassed Greg's neighbors?" Gil asked.

Sara's eyes widened and she looked at Gil with dawning horror. "I did. Only one answered the door." She reached into her ready kit and pulled out the notes she'd made. As she moved, her thoughts raced back to the unpleasant interview with the angry attorney. Steel flinted Sara's eyes as she read off in a disgusted voice "Mr. Lassiter, junior partner at Goering, Harding, and Lassiter. Head and face injuries, claims in office accident this morning. Thinks crime lab should be shut down for _'slipshod investigations and rigged evidence.'_ Something about daughter, but didn't finish statement. Refused cooperation." She looked up.

Brass matched Sara's grim expression. "We just got a suspect." He looked to Gil then back to Sara. "So, other than law enforcement and this Lassiter, you spoke to the robbery victims."

She nodded. She couldn't imagine the robbery victims having anything to do with Greg's disappearance so continued with the newest lead. "Lassiter said the office would have security footage of him."

Running a hand over his chin, Brass looked thoughtful. Finally, he said, "I want to check back with Lassiter. I also want to talk with the other neighbors, just in case. I'll get someone looking into the daughter angle."

Gil's voice broke into Brass' list. "Take Sara, Jim. I'll go to the office and check out the security tapes and the accident site." He frowned. "Keep in touch." He pulled out Sara's phone and handed it back to her, knowing full well she could receive another threatening call but taking the chance. On the way out of the audio-visual lab, Gil called, "Hodges, with me," and strode out the door; Dave grabbed a kit and followed, shocked.

Archie turned to the others and said, "I'll keep an ear out for anything."

Brass nodded then led Sara from the lab, his face settled in displeased lines. Sara's expression was a near match for the lead detective's.

xxx

Apprehensively Nick looked past the security guard into the indicated hospital room. A six foot man lie on the bed, bruised eyes closed, head bandaged, left shoulder also bandaged. A light blanket covered him from his naked chest down. He had medium brown hair tipped blond.

With a sob of relief, Nick hurried past the guard and into the room, Sam Vega trailing behind smiling widely.

"Greggo!" Nick breathed, carefully reaching out to take Greg's near hand; the other had an IV embedded in the back of it. "Hey, Greg."

Greg slowly opened his eyes, looking up at Nick and Vega. He smiled painfully. "I got away from him. My car's at the Marina."

Nick nodded. "Warrick's on it." He slid to the chair and removed his hand from Greg's. Pulling out his notebook and pen, he grinned at his friend despite the subject. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Some . . . bits," Greg said hoarsely and Vega offered him a Styrofoam cup of water with a straw. Greg took a thankful sip and looked back at Nick.

xxx

_Stretching, Greg slipped out of his car in the early morning light. He shut the door to his silver Volkswagen Passat then ran a hand through his hair, uncaring that the blond-tipped brown mass stood on end, disarrayed and tangling. With a soft groan, the criminal investigator took his back steps two at a time, intent on getting a shower, supper, and sleep, in that order. He unlocked the back door and walked inside, flipping on the kitchen light, letting the door shut behind him._

_Heading down the short hallway to his living room, Greg flipped on lights as he went. He ran a hand through his hair again and sighed as his body started to relax: winding down after a long shift sometimes took a while. Greg emptied his pockets, tossing his badge, keys, wallet, and cellphone onto the low coffee table, the keys bouncing off the laptop there and landing on the floor. With a grunt, Greg bent and retrieved the keys to toss them back onto the table._

_Kicking off his shoes and leaving them willy-nilly in the living room, he headed into his bedroom to retrieve fresh clothes. He pulled out a pair of boxers and a turquoise T-shirt from the unfolded clean laundry in the basket by his closet. Mentally reviewing the contents of his bathroom shelves, Greg pulled out a towel, too, then headed into the bathroom, dumping the clean clothes on the sink counter. He stripped then laid his dress shirt over the dirty clothes hamper and followed it with his trousers, but gleefully balled his socks and used boxers and tossed them into the hamper. Hanging the fresh towel from the bar near the tub, Greg stepped inside, pulled closed the curtain with the abstract geometric pattern, and started the shower._

_A full half hour passed as Greg relaxed under the hot water, letting the day's worries ease. He didn't like to take his work home with him, but at times the emotional residue tagged along. Hot water tended to help dissipate the memories. Finally, he scrubbed down, including his hair, and stepped out just before his tank ran out of hot water. He turned the tap off and began drying himself, feeling reinvigorated once more._

_Smiling, the investigator rubbed his hair enthusiastically then draped the towel around his shoulders. He slipped on the boxers and the T-Shirt, one of his favorites, reading:_ 'Interfere ye not in the affaires of dragons for ye are crunchy and good with catsup.' _It was a T-Shirt Cath had passed on as a present from her daughter Lindsay; the teen had picked it up for him the month before on her class trip to New York City. She had gotten everyone gifts from the Museum of Natural Science or the Museum of Art, but hadn't found anything she wanted to give Greg, so picked his gift up from a New York street vendor. Greg felt his gift showed a lot of thought and he liked to joke that it was from the Museum of Natural Science, since dragons were natural._

_Greg walked into the kitchen, his typical exuberance showing with the renewed bounce in his step. The open windows let in a cooling breeze and a promise of rain hung in the air: very good news since Las Vegas was experiencing a drought. July had been an extremely hot month without cooling rains to wash away the accumulated desert dust and grime. Uncaring that he walked around his home in just a T-shirt and drawers, his curtains pretty much blocked any view, Greg headed to the refrigerator for his much sought after supper._

_Opening the door, he fanned the cool air over himself as he searched for his desired meal. Leftover stew sounded very filling. He grabbed the china bowl of stew and pulled out an apple, taking a bite of the juicy red fruit. Wiping some dribbled juice from the corner of his mouth, he took the apple in his teeth and turned towards the microwave on the other side of the back door._

_A man in jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt stood just inside the kitchen door, watching Greg, his face shaded by the loose hood._

_Stunned, Greg reacted instinctively, tossing the stew bowl at the stranger. It missed, crashing to the floor and splintering, sending china shards and food across the floor from the refrigerator to the back door. The man lunged at Greg, a knife in his hand; the blade tore at Greg's left shoulder. Pain surged down his arm and through his chest, a starburst of color and agony following the initial burning sensation._

_The pain triggered his fighting instinct and Greg grabbed the heavy wooden dining table in the center of the room, shoving it hard into his attacker. The man released an inarticulate howl but Greg didn't stay to check on the man. Instead, he turned and fled down the hall. Reaching up to the wall phone, Greg fumbled it down, trying to dial 9-1-1, but the stranger charged down the hall at him. The investigator turned, dropping the phone, and ran into the living room, the attacker right behind._

_Bumping into the coffee table, Greg turned and threw his apple at the man, hitting him on the cheek. Without pause, Greg grabbed up his laptop and whirled, slamming the man upside the head. The stranger staggered but kept coming so Greg brought the now cracked laptop against the man's face, smashing the guy's nose. The stranger dropped to the floor and Greg tried to scramble over his coffee table but a searing, burning pain in his right calf brought a scream from his throat._

_He pulled his injured leg out of the man's reach, climbing onto the coffee table. The attacker picked up the damaged laptop and slammed it solidly over Greg's head. Blackness enveloped the investigator._

xxx

Nick listened with growing anger and misery as Greg recalled waking up in the trunk and nearly being hit by the tire iron the man wielded. Greg went on to describe his attempts at collecting rain, hearing the sounds of people, and eventually escaping and collapsing in front of the family from San Diego.

Writing quickly, Nick took down every pain-filled word, comparing Greg's account with the timeline of the case. Since they'd received the tire iron in the bloody package, it had been sent after the man threatened Greg . . . and probably after the police officer stopped the kidnapper: there was no noticeable damage to Greg's trunk in the police video and the T-Shirt had been caught in the door. The kidnapper must have removed Greg's shirt while the young investigator had lain unconscious.

When Greg fell silent, Nick leaned closer. "Did you recognize him, Greg? What did he look like?"

Greg lifted his eyes to meet Nick's and sighed. "I never saw anything more than the hoodie and a lot of dark shadows. He didn't speak at all, Nick. I knew what he wanted by his actions alone." After a painful breath, he added, "but I got him good with the laptop. I might have broken his nose." There was satisfaction in Greg's tone.

"Good man, Greggo," Nick praised, nodding. He slipped the notebook into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Wincing at the sudden realization that he should have called before beginning the questioning, Nick dialed the main lab number and waited for someone to answer.

At Jacqui's answer, Nick said, "Greg's in the hospital and he's going to be okay. I got his statement and I'm going to process him."

"I'll tell the others," Jacqui said, relief coloring her voice. She paused then said, "Ask him his opinion on his neighbors, Nick." She hung up on that advice.

Nick turned off his phone and looked back at the battered form of his friend. Greg watched him with pained but intent eyes, so Nick decided to give in to Jacqui's prompting.

"Greggo? What do you think of your neighbors?"

"My neighbors?" Greg was clever enough to realize exactly where this line of questioning was going. "There's a cute old lady lives on one side, but she's in New Mexico with a new great-grandson right now. She's been gone for three days. I've been picking up her mail for her." He swallowed more water from Vega's proffered cup, gratitude for the soothing liquid registering in his eyes. "The other side is a lawyer whose daughter was killed three years ago."

"Go on," Nick leaned forward, pulling the notebook back out and beginning to write again.

"He's a quiet guy who sticks to himself, no friends that I've seen. I felt bad when I had to testify in his daughter's case. We have DNA evidence but no match for it yet." Greg sighed and looked at Nick. "The guy's always sad but he's nice enough. He seems to really like the old lady on my other side. He's always checking up on her, like he's made himself neighborhood watch, even though he doesn't check up on me that I know of."

Greg fell quiet, his entire body seeming to droop in exhaustion. "Can I sleep now, Nick?"

Nick nodded. He stood, slipping away his notebook once more. "Sam's going to stay and watch over you," he said, watching Sam Vega settle into the other chair.

"Great," Greg smiled slightly. "The doc said I can leave in a few hours. I'm really just tired and dehydrated, but nothing too serious." Greg closed his eyes.

"That's great, Greggo," Nick said then left the room, allowing his friend the much needed rest he sought. Those bandages told Nick that Greg was more injured than he let on, but hospitals were always releasing patients as quickly as possible to recuperate at home.

xxx

Apparently unsurprised, one of Mister Harding's legal assistants led Gil and Dave towards Mister Lassiter's darkened office. "You won't find him here at this time, sirs. He worked almost thirty-six hours and is home now. This is his office." She reached for the door but Gil held up a hand.

"Let me." He pulled on gloves and turned the knob, swinging the door into the office. A wooden desk and chair sat neatly at the back wall, which was lined with full book shelves. Two comfortably appointed chairs sat before the desk. A pair of metal filing cases five drawers high sat against the back wall. Everything was neat and the faint smell of cleaning fluids wafted on the air, driven by the rain-laden night air through the pair of windows.

"I understand he was injured last night some time?" Gil looked at the woman who shrugged in return.

"I don't know. I didn't see him. If he was attacked, it would be on the security video, but why wouldn't he report it?"

Gil stared at the woman a long silent moment before saying, "I didn't say he was attacked. May I look in his office?"

"Of course: as long as you don't open drawers or cabinets or anything. You'd need a warrant for searching. But a casual look you can do." She stayed by the door, watching intently as Gil walked in and shone an orange hued light over the rug and chair.

With a frown, he said, "do I need a warrant to check the security tape, Miss Gingrey?"

She tilted her head. "What is it you're looking for, Mister Grissom?"

Gil looked at her directly, still shining his light under the desk. "If you'll look at this, Miss Gingrey and tell me how severely hurt you think Mister Lassiter is?"

Hesitantly, the legal assistant stepped over to Gil's side and looked at the odd pattern of fluid illuminated on the carpet. It made no sense to her so she shrugged and looked at the investigator who'd asked for access to _'either clear or implicate'_ Mister Lassiter in an open case. She was the only person at the office and saw no reason why she shouldn't help the investigators clear her boss's junior partner. "I can't tell how badly he was hurt, sir. I know nothing about forensics except calling a witness to testify and verify." She crossed her arms and sighed. "We're corporate lawyers, not injury lawyers."

"Hodges, photograph the stain, rug, desk, chair, and door." Gil back carefully out of the way, followed by the legal assistant, as Dave got to work.

Normally Dave wasn't in the field, but the investigators were all busy. Being trusted for this kind of responsibility was a feather in his cap, as Dave saw it. He wouldn't let them down. Thus, he pulled out the video camera he'd brought along, starting at the door and filing the entire room then narrowing down on the desk and floor under it. He then used a still camera and photographed the same angles, full room narrowing down to desk and rug underneath. He photographed the stain with a special lens filter to illuminate the fluid, as well. Finally, he logged every photograph and the video markers in his evidence log. When he looked to Gil for his next assignment, he almost jumped.

Gil stood in the corner out of the way, watching everything Dave did. Dave suddenly wondered if he'd forgotten something critical. He wished he was back in the trace lab once more.

The supervisory investigator merely nodded once and knelt down to take samples.

"Um," the legal assistant craned her neck and back to see over the desk, trying to stay out of the way. "Is that blood?"

"We'll see," Gil said. He applied a drop of the proper agent to the stained swab and watched as it turned a vivid purple. Looking beyond the swap to the woman he flatly stated "human blood." He stood and looked around the small stain, roughly in the shape of a flattened tennis ball with spattering around it. Carefully, Gil radiated the filtered light over the bottom of the desk, but nothing lit up. "Photo," he said.

Obligingly, Dave Hodges photographed the underside of the desk with and without the filter.

Finally, Gil turned to the legal secretary. "We'd like to see those security tapes, please."

She shook her head. "Not without a warrant." Her voice sounded firm at last, her back stiffening in apparent preparation for an argument.

Far from fighting, Gil merely nodded and turned towards the door. "We'll have one." He led Dave from the office back down to the garage, the trace expert following in confusion.

Once they were in Gil's vehicle, Dave turned to him and shook his head. "Just like that? We let them shut us out?"

"Just like that. Without a warrant, we can't use any evidence we collect from this point on. We'll get the warrant and collect the tapes, adding blood and hair for good measure." He pulled from the parking garage and turned into the early morning traffic. "But we have what we need for now."

"We do?" Dave looked confused. "What do we have? A couple of blood swabs and some pictures of a small area of blood under a desk."

"Not enough blood for a severe head injury and broken nose." Gil agreed, nodding.

"But . . ." Dave fell silent in confusion, working out why Gil sounded so pleased with the results. Finally, his eyes opened wide and he turned to his supervisor again. "Wait, that means the guy had to have been injured somewhere else?"

"If the video shows a lack of serious injury, it will support the lack of blood. If the neighbor lied to Sara about how he got those injuries, he just hit the top of the list. Of course, his DNA would be useful."

"To match the blood from Greg's house?" Dave asked.

Gil didn't answer, merely pulling the car to a stop in front of a local judge's house. The woman had made it clear that if ever law enforcement were involved, she should be woken up to sign a warrant. Gil had only used her once before: for Nick's kidnapping.

The supervisory investigator and the trace lab technician slipped out of the car, preparing to utilize the judge's standing offer once more. Her house lights were one; she was awake and prepared for their visit.

xxx

The house was dark as Sara and Jim Brass strode up the walkway to Mister Lassiter's front porch. The television was off and no one seemed to be moving in the place. Glancing briefly at Sara, Jim raised his hand and pounded on the solid wooden door.

He pounded again, impatient with waiting.

A light flickered on in a window facing Greg's home, still well lit, still guarded at all corners. After several long minutes, Mister Lassiter swung the door open, revealing a sleepy, bruised and bandaged face to the detective and the investigator.

"Mister Lassiter?" Jim asked to clarify.

"Yes? Is this about the kid next door again?" The man's eyes passed over Brass to rest hostilely on Sara. He seemed as lethargic as he had hours earlier. "I've already answered your questions. I was at work when the kid next door was attacked. And I will not give any samples without a warrant." Pure hostility reverberated through each word, despite the man's cultured accent.

Jim nodded. "That's okay. We just need to ask a few more questions, fix your timeline and alibi. We need you to come down to the station, please."

Mister Lassiter slowly crossed his arms. "No. You'll have to arrest me for something before I set foot near that place. Good day." The man unfurled his arms and shut the door, slowly but deliberately.

Sara growled softly in frustration. "Nothing more than I got before." She turned her glare to Jim.

He nodded. "Now we wait." Jim turned and led Sara back to the car they'd come in. Both slid into the front seats and settled in for a several hour stake-out.

They made no secret of their presence as they waited.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _CSI: Crime Scene Investigation_ was created by Ann Donahue and Anthony E. Zuiker and produced by Alliance Atlantis Communications, CBS Paramount Network Television (2006-2009), CBS Productions (2006-2009), and Jerry Bruckheimer Television. I am in no way connected with these people, and I do not claim ownership of these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story, and most likely not a story any of them would have written, had they had the time or no. I am making no money from this and it is just for my entertainment and that of free entertainment to a select group. Thank you.
> 
> Note: In the _SpeedBurn_ timeline series significant changes occur in various episodes, marking differences in each series. The initial drastically changed episodes are in chronological order: "Bait" (Without a Trace), "Reveille" (NCIS), "Lost Son" (CSI: Miami), "Bodies in Motion" (Crime Scene Investigation), "Summer in the City" (CSI: NY), and "In Name and Blood (In Birth and Death)" (Criminal Minds). Many episodes after those changed are also different. This story is number 20 in the grand scheme. Thank you.


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